


10 to 50 to 74 to 75

by WildcatPacer



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:34:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 68,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27006637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildcatPacer/pseuds/WildcatPacer
Summary: Whoo! I'm beat! But this is my magnum opus - the longest fic I have written ever. We start off with presuming that Lucy Gray Baird, the Victor of the 10th Hunger Games, survives BoSS. How would she be as a mentor to young Haymitch Abernathy, and then to the Star-Crossed Lovers? Read to find out, please review and enjoy!
Comments: 5
Kudos: 6





	1. Double the Order

**Chapter 1: Double the Order**

**Lucy Gray's POV**

I really could have survived in the woods, run as far away from Panem as I would have liked, if the one stray bullet hadn't ended up in my leg.

I should have known that Coryo would have come for me. He has always been ambitious, to the point of preserving himself over others. I just didn't expect for him to be such a good and lucky shot at random, shooting blindly into the trees.

The arena had taught me a few things - well, more than a few things. One of them was dressing and treating a wound. I was able to dig the bullet out of my lower calf and then dress the wound with a bandage tourniquet, to staunch the blood flow.

With the blood loss halted, I remained in the woods for three or four days, catching and skinning game and living off the land. Then I started to feel exhausted. The ache in my calf persisted. If I didn't do something soon, I risked the gaping hole in my leg becoming infected, and then where would I be?

It was with great pain that I decided the only way to live long-term would be to return to District 12. Re-enter the Seam and hope that my brethren in the Covey would welcome me back.

On the morning of what I judged to be the fifth day since I was shot (rather poetic, now that I think about it - I was in the arena for five days), I set out for District 12 on foot. I crawled under the meager fence separating the district from the open wilderness beyond. Hiked into the Seam. The first place I turned to was Maude Ivory's house. My cousin and best friend had never abandoned me before, and she doesn't now, admitting me into her mother's house and applying Healer's medicine to my gunshot wound.

Despite being as discreet as I can, it was only a matter of hours before word spread that I was back.

A squadron of Peacekeepers surrounded the Baird homestead and dragged me out onto the front porch. I thought I would be marched right to the Justice Building, or worse, put on a train bound for the Capitol to be jailed and executed there.

But no. The Peacekeepers instead brought me to a lone ramshackle house high on a hill, where bulldozers had already amassed and were beginning a major construction project.

In the Capitol's view, I may have cheated in the Games. I may have borne witness to a handful of grisly murders and then stolen valuable ammunition. But I am still the Victor of the 10th Hunger Games. That might not quite make me a celebrity... yet, I am still, even in the eyes of an all-powerful regime, untouchable.

And having surrendered myself back into their hands, I realize that the Capitol, nor even the Games, nor even Coriolanus Snow, is done with me yet...

* * *

**40 Years Later**

The sharp rapping on the door awakens me rudely that summer morning.

"Miss Baird! Miss Baird!"

The Capitol accent is grating on the ears, and I groan as I flop my head into my pillow. That doesn't stop the dapples of sunlight - already filtering in from the flimsy curtain at my window - from also invading past my eyelashes.

I hear the door open downstairs, the clack of high heels as footsteps make their way up the steps. Then my bedroom door opens, and there is Mitzi Hoops in all her loud glory. Orange wig, skin almost bronze in color and a smile way too jovial, she crosses to the bed and shakes me.

"Miss Baird, please! Don't keep the Peacekeepers waiting!"

She actually has the temerity to yank the bedcovers out from over me.

It happens so fast, I don't even know how I got there. But next second, I am out of bed, my Capitol escort pinned under me, and the knife that I always sleep with at her throat.

"Touch me like that again... and it'll be the last thing you ever do." My voice is more growl than English.

Mitzi squeaks as she nods her head frantically, and I let her up. She practically runs back through my spacious home and I follow her at a leisurely pace. Just before entering the foyer, I see a Peacekeeper sergeant stationed at the front door, and he raises an eyebrow at the blade in my hand.

"We're gonna have to confiscate that..."

I toss my knife onto the kitchen counter, cocking an eyebrow. "Better?"

He merely nods, and I stride out onto the front porch of my opulent mansion, where a squad of Peacekeepers surrounds me. By now, I know the drill: the Peacekeepers escort me from my home in District 12's Victor's Village (where I have lived alone - ALONE - for decades) to the Justice Building, where I meet with the Mayor before I am made to stand before the whole district and see which two children have been selected for almost certain death.

Only this year is the year of the 50th Annual Hunger Games, or Second Quarter Quell. And with each new Quarter Quell, there is a twist - this year, each district is required to send twice as many tributes.

Hell's teeth, have I really been doing this for forty years?

Well, actually, thirty-nine years - my first year as a mentor was for the 11th Hunger Games. I had heard rumors that Coryo was now a Gamemaker and no one trusted him to mentor again. In fact, no one trusted any of the best and brightest from the Academies to mentor again; it was feared that the temptation to cheat was too great. Along with the other previous nine Victors, I was made to observe my tributes and all the others rounded up and imprisoned in the cattle cars, then the Capitol Zoo. If they were going to use me, problematic as I was, then they might as well use the nine others who had won the Games before me, though all of them had by and large returned to their lives after escaping a fight to the death. Only Districts 4 and 10 were without someone to mentor; Peacekeepers were placed on hand to help.

Four and Ten needed a win badly, and for the former, they finally got one: the District 4 girl, Mags, triumphed in a brutal display of lethal combat in water. The Capitol showered her with praise, and were so enamored with her, that six months later, they trotted her out for adulation all over again, in something termed the Victory Tour. It was hard not to feel jealous of Mags; I had never gotten a Victory Tour.

As the years passed, other changes evolved gradually: the tours of the arenas were discontinued, Victor's Villages were built in earnest in every district. Sponsors - a novelty beginning in my Games - were expanded and heightened, their concept polished and refined. The drones that delivered precious gifts were replaced by harmless parachutes. Sometime in the 20s, the concept of escorts was created after the Academies raised complaints over their lack of participation (really, it was a kind of banishment) from the Games. The best and brightest at the Academies would now act not as mentors, but as escorts for the tributes to the Capitol. Liaisons for those selected for death.

Even the way the tributes were treated was altered. With the invention of the Victory Tour, Victors and the tributes they coached were treated as national celebrities, brought to the main city in style and put up in lavish hotels instead of housed like pigs in cages for animals. It was hard not to feel bitter about that, too.

And in the months between the Games and the Victory Tours, when the Capitol is thirsty for more wild bloodshed, Capitol TV has taken up the practice of rebroadcasting favorite past Games.

Not mine, though. No one speaks about my Games. It has never been re-aired - believe me, for a long time, I would check every single broadcast before finally giving up. All that people are allowed to know about the 10th Hunger Games is that its Victor was from District 12.

And her name is Lucy Gray Baird.

We have descended the hill leading up to Victors' Village and are making our way through the Seam enroute to Town. Judging by the sun, it is about 9:00 in the morning. The Reaping doesn't start for another hour. By the district dump, commonly known as the Slag Heap, a bunch of Seam boys are playing a pick-up game of marbles. As I observe from within my posse of white-plated officers, I see one boy angrily leap up and wildly gesticulate at a smaller boy, yelling wild accusations about 'cheating'. The small boy - he can't be any more than twelve years old, only just Reaping age - is simpering as he denies it, but the older boys will have none of it. They cast themselves upon him, tackling the poor little lad and holding him down as they beat him.

My Peacekeeper posse slows to a leisurely crawl, rubber-necking the brawl and I see a couple of the officers cast their eyes about with uncertainty, wondering if they should intervene. Before they can make a decision -

"LEAVE HIM ALONE! PICKING ON A POOR RUNT LIKE THAT? GET OUTTA HERE!" A wild-eyed Seam boy - dark-brown hair, blue eyes, striking features capped off by a chiseled jawline - dives into the fray and the other young men scatter, scrabbling back from the threatening sight of a tanner's blade.

"COME ON, THEN! COME ON!" the wild knife-wielder bellows, keeping the little one tucked behind him.

Now the Peacekeepers decide to intervene. "Here, here, off with ya, Abernathy! You shouldn't be playing with knives like that!"

"They're my daddy's! I can do what I like with them!" There is a defiance at the tilt of the boy's chin that is almost... dangerous. It makes my stomach clench.

"Not out in public, you can't - be off with ya! Get on home and change into something suitable - the Reaping's in less than an hour!" The Peacekeeper captain cuffs the Abernathy boy behind the ear and he takes off, knife tucked in his jacket, the little runt glued to his side.

Now I remember where I've seen him before: he's the eldest son of Markus Abernathy, the tanner. But hang it all if I can't remember his name!

My heavy guard escort completes our journey into Town and up the steps to the Justice Building, entering through a side door. I greet Mayor Duckworth quietly, before standing off to one side to wait.

Before long, the clock in the square strikes 10:00, and the front double doors of the Justice Building are thrown wide open. In the Square before us, a mass crowd has gathered - the whole of District 12, Merchant and Seam alike - to greet the Mayor with polite applause.

District 12 Escort Mitzi Hoops is guided up a side series of stone steps to the platform before the Justice Building. Taking the microphone, she begins chirpily, cheerfully, "Welcome, Welcome! The time has come to select _two_ young men and _two_ young women for the honor of representing District 12 in the 50th Annual Hunger Games, or Second Quarter Quell!" She places strong emphasis on the change in numbers, as if this is something fun, something to celebrate. I have to remember that for the Capitol, this is something to celebrate - Quarter Quells come about only once every quarter of a century.

I remember the first Quarter Quell. Remember it well. I had already been on the mentor beat for close to fifteen years by that point, and the twist that year was that the district citizens would hold a vote to select their tributes. Essentially, there was no Reaping - merely an election to replace it.

Throughout the leadup to the First Quell, the Capitol had poured propaganda into the districts, encouraging them to take this opportunity to get rid of "undesirables." For the people of Twelve, that was dog-whistle code for 'orphans' or 'descendants of remaining Dark Days leaders' (though few remained by that point). The people listened.

Despite this steady diet of turning against the poorest of the poor, the Election for that year's Quell was pretty much a disaster, at least here in Twelve. The Merchants seemed determined to send only Seam kids from the Community Home, while the Seamers wanted to see a Merchant kid go to his/her death. A Merchant child was nearly nominated too. But in the end, both of that year's tributes were orphans from the Community Home. I still remember their names: Ty Bass and Cora Tamarin. Cora was one of the last kids to die in the Bloodbath the first day. Ty made it to the Final Four before the mutts got him - mutts that looked like bobcats.

I remember their names. Their fates. Even how they died. Just as I do for every failed tribute I have mentored for the past four decades.

My inner thoughts have at the very least spared me from listening to the prepared video montage that is played every year - about the Glory of the Games. Somehow, Mitzi Hoops manages to stay enraptured with the video display every year.

Then, Mayor Duckworth steps forward: "And now we shall read the names of Past District 12 Victors."

In nearly half a century, there has only ever been one: me.

"The Victor of the 10th Hunger Games: Lucy Gray Baird!"

There is a smattering of polite applause for me, and I give a halfhearted wave.

"Won't you sing for us, Miss Baird?" The Mayor turns to me.

It is an old joke between us - one that only Mayor Duckworth seems to think is amusing. He always asks me to sing as a point of nostalgia, for when I was Reaped for my Games. And I always decline. I don't sing. Not anymore.

Mitzi takes the mic again. "And now to draw our female tributes!" She pulls out the first slip of paper from the glass bowl to her right.

"Ahsoka Simone!"

A Seam girl who can't be older than 13 tremblingly emerges from her place in line and takes the stage. Out comes the second slip for the girls.

"Maysilee Donner!"

At this, several gasps actually go up, followed by heated whispering, as a girl with a crown of blond hair, eyes wide with terror, marches up to the stage from the sixteen-year-olds' section. I have heard the name Donner - it belongs to a prominent Merchant family in Town. They run the tailor shop. It's been at least three years since we last had a tribute hail from the Merchant sector. I notice another blonde girl who is very beautiful in face sobbing as she hugs Maysilee goodbye.

"Wonderful!" Mitzi chirps. "And now for the boys."

One slip of paper plucked from the bowl at her right. "Terence Asher McFadden!"

The set of three names makes me immediately perk up as I realize: this boy is _Covey_. Or a descendant of them, as I am. Even worse, it is the exact same little lad who nearly got himself beat up in that game of marbles gone bad. His eyes are red and puffy, big and fat tears already streaming down his cheeks as he makes his way to the stage. The boy is so hysterical, he can barely walk; a Peacekeeper has to nudge him the rest of the way.

One more slip...

"Haymitch Abernathy!"

And there he is. The young man with the knife who defended Terence Asher just this morning. Stocky build. Strong and handsome. And with a defiant set to his jaw, a stoic flash of bravery in his eyes.

As I observe Haymitch Abernathy take the stage, I am already making tabulations in my head of how much I can get for him from sponsors. His odds.

But as Mitzi proudly presents, "The Tributes from District 12!" for all my neighbors, I know that, with double the numbers, the odds are even less in our favor.

* * *

I am made to wait in the hallway of the Justice Building with my entourage - Mitzi and a battalion of Peacekeepers, as we wait for our four tributes to finish saying their goodbyes from behind the closed doors of holding rooms. Most years, hardly anyone shows up to see our tributes off, knowing them to be good as dead.

Maybe it's because it is a Quell year, for I can already tell I may have to wait longer than normal before it is to the train for the lot of us. Scores of people with Aryan looks, blond hair and blue eyes nearly wrap out the double doors for Maysilee Donner. There is also a smattering of admirers for Terence Asher McFadden - I spot my cousin, Maude Ivory, in the crowd. Eyes wide with lingering fear, she nods quietly to me, and I nod back, taking note of the young man at her side. Her boy, who looks to be about the same age as the Abernathy kid. Though I haven't been to see my distant relatives of the Covey in many a year, I have heard that the young man can sing almost as well as me...

There are also a handful of supporters for Haymitch, most prominently a young woman who clearly looks Merchant (I take this in silently. Odd. Seam and Merchant almost never mix). This girl goes into Haymitch's holding room first, leaving a middle-aged woman with etch lines of worry already setting into her face. Holding her hand is her youngest son, Haymitch's little brother. At first glance, no one would believe that he is only 14 - Gregory Aberanthy (I think that is his name) is built like an ox. He would have made a fine tribute, if his mind and disposition was not as soft as a lamb's. He is a gentle giant - I have heard the whispers of how his mind is slower than most.

Almost no one appears to wish poor little Ashoka well, and she is the first one out of her holding room to stand and wait with me. They are funneling the admirers of Maysilee through as fast as they can, and as her line dwindles, Terence Asher emerges next, Maude Ivory and her boy following behind.

"Goodbye, Yarrow," I say quietly to the young man. Yarrow pauses only briefly to nod at me before taking his leave with Maude Ivory. Terence Asher draws meekly to my side, and I can't think of much more to do but put an arm around him.

The door next to Maysilee's holding cell (she has only a handful of people left to see her off) opens, and the Abernathys drift out. Haymitch is holding his brother's hand and speaking in a tender voice that seems to be deeply uncharacteristic for him.

"Nothing's gonna hurt you anymore, right?" The youngest Abernathy son babbles something nonsensical, but in a tone clearly content as he snuggles into his brother's side. "Yeah... Goodbye, Gregory."

Gregory suddenly looks very stricken, as if he really does know what is going on. "Brovey..."

Haymitch takes a shuddering breath. "Brovey has to go..." He hugs him, then his mother, before approaching the rest of us. Upon catching me staring, he attempts to glare me into submission with his eyes.

"What are you looking at?" His Seam grey orbs flash dangerously, a muscle in his jaw ticking. I don't answer, the standoff interrupted by the last of Maysilee Donner's fans being escorted out and our fourth tribute emerging at last.

"Come along, everyone! We don't want to be late for the Capitol!" Mitzi chirps, like we are about to hit the road on a vacation.

Terence Asher, meanwhile, looks as though he is being sent to the whipping post. Ahsoka pales, and even Maysilee appears a little green. Only Haymitch seems unfazed as we are all forced into an armored car for the ride to the District 12 train station.

The ride is cramped and uncomfortable, and I almost want to vocally complain about how the armored cars were not expanded in anticipation of there being more people in our party. As the little ones, Ahsoka and Terence Asher have no choice but to scrunch up on the crawlspace perch above the backseat, nearly pressed up against the panes of the back window. I feel quite claustrophobic, stuck in the middle between Haymitch and Maysilee and resort to quietly watching the houses of the district rush by and just willing us to get to the station already. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Maysilee blinking back tears as she too peers from the glassy panes. I avert my gaze into my lap forlornly.

We reach the train station at last, and our entourage of six tumble out, leg muscles screaming in relief at being stretched. The battalion of Peacekeepers frogmarch us over the platform and into the hydraulic compartment of the train car. The doors seal behind us with a WHOOSH and just like that we are speeding away from District 12.

Only two of us are guaranteed to ever see the coal fields and hazy blanket of grey smog again.


	2. Aging Master

**Chapter 2: Aging Master**

I was still a young woman, only 31 years old, when my first Quarter Quell happened. At 56, I am now middle-age and one of the most seasoned mentors still active in preparing tributes for the Games.

All I can hope for is that, by the time the third Quarter Quell rolls around, I'll be long dead.

It is hard enough in an ordinary year to watch two kids eat themselves sick as they are transported to their likely death. For District 12, it is far more common for both tributes to be Reaped from the Seam, where a decent meal can be quite sparse growing up. Merchants (who are reared on a far more healthy and reliable diet) have been plucked from the Ball before, but not nearly as often. So it is damn near debilitating to observe four children stuffing themselves - the pigs willingly fattening themselves up before going to the slaughter.

Well, three children are actually doing this. Maysilee Donner, the lone Merchant Reaped, has hardly touched her food since the Avoxes first brought it. For Ahsoka, Haymitch and little Terence Asher, the Hunger Games have turned into a war of literal hunger, fought over the mahogany oak of the dining table. They are grabbing, gobbling, slurping down whatever they can get their hands on. Terence Asher's chipmunk cheeks are so pronounced, I fear he might actually become physically ill with how much he has ingested into his tiny body.

I can't say I blame any of them. When I was their age, many decades ago, the Covey and others in the Seam were malnourished too. I actually feel bad for pondering these thoughts, even as just a mere observation. Down at the head of the table, the palpable look of disgust on Mitzi Hoops' face is far more judgmental. You would think she would be used to it by now - she's been my escort since the late 20s. And she looks like she is about to voice her displeasure too, but one hairy eyeball from me and she is cowed enough to know that she will just have to lump it. Elitism is never a good look, even for the Capitol.

Haymitch finally has the good sense to slow down, sitting back to allow the little ones to keep gorging. He seems amused by their feasting, in fact. Then he locks eyes with me. His face becoming somber, deadly serious, he leans forward in his chair, arms folded across the tabletop. "OK. How do we win?"

Maysilee takes this as her cue to push her still-untouched plate away from her and focus on me. Ahsoka and Terence Asher don't even glance up.

I can't help but cock an eyebrow at this boy's precociousness. I could tell even before meeting Haymitch that he doesn't suffer fools gladly. He wants the truth. Expects it. So I'll give it to him.

"You don't," I say simply, blandly buttering a roll.

Evidently, this wasn't the answer Haymitch was expecting to hear for he leans back on his heels, even as his jaw clenches in defiance. "What kind of an answer is that? You're still here, aren't you? You're the proof that it's even _possible_ for a District 12 tribute to win!"

"Not win," I correct him. "Survive. There are no winners in the Games, whether you're from District 1 or from District 12. There are only survivors. I _survived_. And if you want to know how a tribute from District 12 can go into an arena and survive, then you had better the hell listen to exactly what I say."

Haymitch purses his lips tightly, but says nothing, appearing to concede the point. He may not understand it yet, but he'll learn - the world of the Capitol, the world of the arena, is not so simple as Seam versus Townie. Aryan white versus coal-ash gray. Inside the Games, and even once you're out of them, reality itself can become blurred to the haziest extent. Allies become enemies - as Jessup, my own district partner, did on the second day in my Games, the rabies turning him on me. Rivals can become partners... even lovers... then back to bitter enemies again. Coryo's handsome face swims into my brain before becoming hardened with age, transforming into the -

 _Stop_ , I tell myself. _Don't think about him_.

"Miss Baird," a tiny voice whines from the seat next to Haymitch. I glance down to see Terence Asher slumped halfway down his chair, holding his stomach and moaning. "I don't feel so good..."

It is Mitzi who actually lifts a finger to help, dabbing at her lips with a napkin. "I'll help you to bed, Terence Asher. Come on... up you get - there's a good lad..." She actually carries him from the dining car. I find it within myself to flash my escort a grateful smile. Sometimes, Mitzi Hoops can show she has a heart. Or at least, self-awareness.

"I feel sick..." Ahsoka moans, and her face has actually shifted to the color of vomit.

"Bathroom. Now." Haymitch moves quickly, taking the little girl by the hand and running her to the door Mitzi and Terence Asher just stepped through.

"Down the car, second door on the left!" I call to my tributes' retreating backs.

"I'll be back!" Haymitch tosses over his shoulder before the hydraulic door hisses shut.

It is now just Maysilee and I alone in the dining car. The Merchant girl continues to be very subdued, hands folded in her lap. When she finally speaks up, she is polite and soft-spoken.

"Miss Baird, may I speak with you in private?"

I have to chuckle at how considerate she is, gesturing to the room at large. Her timing is certainly impeccable. "Go ahead."

Maysilee wrings her hands. "I don't want to step on Haymitch's toes. He would be so angry with me. He doesn't like Mitzi, and for good reason - but I think his camaraderie and loyalty can be dangerous now. He wants to protect the little ones, and I admire him for that, but..." A look of guilt comes over her face and her voice trails off. Finally, she meets my gaze again, her expression earnest. "How do I win? How do I survive?"

She amends the first question into the second quickly, but I still feel the need to drive the lesson I taught Haymitch home. "Those," I say slowly, "are two _very_ different things. I might be able to help you survive, but nobody wins the Hunger Games - not really. Oh, sure, you get the Crown, the Victory Tour, a nice little mansion, but that's where the good stuff ends." I can't help but keep the bitterness out of my voice - in my day, I didn't even get those perks. Just the drawbacks. Enslaved to the Capitol. Trotted out once a year like a war criminal. Made to mentor kids year after year, only to watch them all die.

I study the girl before me closely. She isn't like most of the Merchants I've met, and even if her comments regarding her fellow tributes don't indicate a cruel indifference towards those of the Seam, there is still a practicality regarding who can hack it in life, and who can't. I circle Maysilee now, appraising her up and down. She is blonde, pretty with a smooth and thin face. Sparkling eyes. But underneath, I can tell she is no wilting flower.

"Let's talk about you," I finally speak. "Can you fight?"

Maysilee bites her lip. "Not really."

"Are you fast?"

"I'm average, I guess," she shrugs.

"Do you know how to handle a weapon? Any weapon?" One of the big reasons why District 12 has had no other Victors besides me actually rests in district coal mining law - no one is allowed to enter the mines until they turn 18, almost by the time they have aged out of the Reaping. That cuts off any chance that someone would know how to wield a pickaxe. And ever since my own Games, any sorts of explosives in the arena (except for the ones planted under the tribute pedestals) have been declared illegal. No tribute of mine would have access to a stick of dynamite, even on the off-chance that he or she _was_ 18, had worked in the mines, and actually knew how to use it.

"No," Maysilee almost sags. "But I'm smart. I'm top of Haymitch's and my year at school."

"Top, you say?" I cock an eyebrow as I peer at her. She nods. I have to admit, I like her confidence in this area. It could serve her well, even if she might be deficient in other areas. And though she might not have any weapons training, she could learn quickly enough to handle herself, after a few lessons.

I smile encouragingly. "Lucky for you, the Games can be just as much about wit as they are about brute strength - sometimes, even more so. Be clever. Use anything you encounter to your advantage. Absorb everything there is to learn like a sponge and you might just walk out alive."

Maysilee nods vigorously, her posture seeming to relax for the first time since her name was called at the Reaping. "I can do that."

A moment later, the hydraulic door to the dining car opens and Haymitch strides in. "We barely got her to the crapper. Ahsoka pretty much tossed all her cookies. She's in bed now, thankfully. What did I miss?"

"We were just talking," I vaguely inform him and Maysilee nods. "In fact, we should _all_ be in bed." And I shoo my eldest tributes away to their rooms for the night. There will be a lot of work to do once we arrive in the Capitol tomorrow.

* * *

The flash bulbs from the cameras of the paparazzi are blinking like dapples of sunlight through the expansive windows of the train as we pull into the Capitol's bustling train station. As soon as the hydraulic doors open, my tributes and I get mobbed like national celebrities. In a way, that is what my tributes are now, having been selected for the social event of the season in Panem.

'Social event'... the Capitol's twisted views on entertainment have always repulsed me, even though I have been a national celebrity and able to walk among the elite here for years. One of the things that helped me win all those decades ago was that Coriolanus convinced the Capitol that I was one of them, and not from lowly District 12. The gambit somehow worked, though really, it shouldn't have. I honestly don't know why the Capitol bothers to shower the Twelve tributes with adulation, as they are pretty much dead kids walking, as they have been for decades.

Maysilee and the little ones are enraptured by the attention, but from the scowl Haymitch sports on his face, I can tell that he sees through all the opulent edifice. Can see past the glamor to realize what the Capitol is really awash in: avarice. Gluttony. Lust. Though I have been accustomed to it for years upon years, and can even fake an appreciation for the lifestyle, in a way I have to admire Haymitch for not buying into it. At least someone gets it, other than me.

Hustling through the pressing throngs, my tributes, Mitzi and I are loaded into a stretch limousine and then shuttled off to the Capitol Salon, where all the tributes are beautified before the Chariot Parade in the City Circle this evening. Trusting that Mitzi will look after them, and giving a polite wave to our stylists, Cicero and Albina, I instruct the driver to take me on ahead to the City Stables. It is here that I will be able to get a few critical hours in getting ahead of the crush of mentors who will already be hitting sponsors up for their proteges.

The stables for our district's horses are empty when I reach the complex, not surprisingly. Striding into the back of one stall, I press my hand into a hidden panel, revealing a secret door. A hidden plague swings down from a hinge over the entrance: _Lucy Gray Baird, District 12 Mentor-at-Work_. Quietly, I step into the hole-in-the-wall office containing only one desk and a phone atop it. I dial the sponsor hotline and put on my most charming voice as the first sponsor answers:

"Felix! Lucy Gray Baird, District 12. I have an excellent crop of tributes for the Quell..."

Most every year, I come into the Games at a distinct disadvantage. With only one win in nearly a half-century - the worst Victory record for a District ever - I get more than my fair share of sponsors hanging up on me, or paltrily dealing out credits and coin that wouldn't even buy a bottle of water on the Games' first day. I am hoping that, with the unique nature of the Quell, things will be different. I feel optimistic that Maysilee and Haymitch will create some buzz. The little ones I am not so sure about. As I think of Ahsoka and Terence Asher, I feel the clench in my gut that tells me they won't make it. No Victor has ever survived the arena under the age of 15.

At the end of a less-than-rewarding call, I hear a knock at my door. "It's open!"

Mags Flanagan, with her curly frizz of red hair, appears, leaning against the doorjamb with a small smile.

"You oughta slow down, Snake Queen!"

I wince at Mags' version of a pet name. Unbidden, an image of Treech convulsing in my embrace after that rainbow rattler bit him leaps into my mind. "Please, don't call me that," I say weakly, even though I know Mags won't listen. Frankly, she is the only one of the few friends I have who I would allow to call me that. If Mitzi Hoops or anyone else tried it, I'd shank them.

Being my most immediate successor in the Games, Mags and I share a special bond. Although she is from District 4 - an ocean paradise worlds away from the coal fields of Twelve - we're a lot alike. I tease her about how she got the luxurious treatments Victors now enjoy before anyone else (and me). She offers good humor, and a shoulder to cry on when my tributes inevitably die.

Mags just smirks at my discomfort. "Our pupils will be arriving soon. We'd better go to the City Stretch and find good seats."

I check the desk chronometer and curse. "It's that late already? Come on, let's go!"

Mags and I hurry out of the stables, where the first of the chariot horses are beginning to arrive at one end. From the other, I can see a stretch limo pull up, and the District 1 Careers just climbing out. In reviewing the Recaps of the Reapings, I could tell that the tributes from 1, 2 and 4 would be particularly lethal this year. It is a well-known secret that tributes from these districts are trained in special Academies, then deployed into the Games at age 18. These tributes win close to every year. And like it or not, they will lap up most of the sponsor gifts and the winner will be one of them.

The City Stretch stands are crowded with Capitol citizens, sponsors, Senators and Victors mingling. Mags has to perch on the balls of her toes to scan above the heads of the crowd before someone catches her eye.

"Yoo-Hoo! Indigo!" When the din drowns her out, she makes a megaphone with her hands and bellows, "HEY! INDIGO! Get your ass over here, boy, and give me a hug!"

Indigo Weaver, District 8 and the Victor of the 1st Quarter Quell, nudges his way through the mob. With a winning smile, he sweeps Mags up into a long hug. At only just 40, he is as much of a lovable cad as he was when he won a quarter-century ago.

Breaking from the hug, Indigo turns to me and embraces me. "Hi, Lucy Gray. Saw that you got some decent pickings this year."

I smile weakly. "We'll see." A woman about my age sidles up behind Indigo, and I grin at her. "Savera. It's been a while."

Savera Inchcape, Indigo's colleague and one-time mentor from District 8, punches me on the arm. Having won the year immediately before I did, she and I have just as good a rapport as I do with Mags. "A year if I'm not mistaken."

"Still the only female Victor from your district?"

"Still the only Victor from yours total?" The barbs are as old as the hills, but all in good fun.

"Must you ladies do this every year?" Woof Casino, the missing piece in District 8's Victor triumvirate, bemoans as he joins us, pulling me into his arms.

"Come on, Woof," I hear Indigo whine from behind him. "It's just a bit of a laugh."

"So what do you think of this Quell?" Woof whispers low to me. I glance at him. The Victor of the 19th Hunger Games, his years have begun to show, the dark hair now streaked with flecks of gray and his pale face more drawn and careworn. He hasn't aged well since the arena he triumphed in thirty years ago.

"Not now!" Mags hisses at him, glancing furtively about. Woof just makes a face at her.

Trumpets blare over the loudspeakers. "Come on," Indigo nudges Mags and I along. "You lot can sit with us!" It's an arrangement we have undertaken pretty much every year. But when Mags looks unsure, the Quarter Quell Victor tosses up his hands. "Oh, for fuck's sake, Mags, Muscida and Librae will be fine chatting up sponsors on their own! They need the experience anyhow!" (That's not entirely accurate. Muscida Selkirk and Libra Olgivy, Mags' only two successful proteges, have each been on the outside of the arena for more than a decade. But Mags does at least deserve a break - she's been doing this about as long as Savera and I have).

Shimmying into one row, I sit down next to the District 8 Victors, with Mags on my left. Woof flags down a concessionair, pays for a bag of popcorn and immediately delves into it. After about five minutes of watching him chew like a hog, Savera starts whacking him.

"Will. You. Stop. Eating?! The first chariots are due!"

"What?" Woof garbles out around his full mouth. "I'm hungry! Settle down, you lunatic!"

Districts 1 and 2's chariots are entering the City Stretch at a steady clip-clop. The cheers of the Capitol citizens are even more deafening than usual, with double the numbers. The chariots themselves have been modified to accommodate the extra bodies, with two rows: shorter tributes in the front, taller ones in the back. At my right, Indigo has to nearly swallow my ear to talk into it.

"Did you notice in the Reaping recaps how two tributes were always little ones and the other two older teens?"

I actually had not, but now that Indigo says it, it makes a lot of sense. Although as District 4's chariot passes by, the age discrepancy is hard to tell - the younger boy in that chariot's front row is at least worth three of Terence Asher, though they must be close to the same age.

The District 8 tributes are emerging from the voms and into the City Stretch; at the sight of them, Woof lets out a loud groan. "Tiles? Seriously? I'll _kill_ that Romulus!"

Indigo chuckles, though he sounds just as embarrassed as Woof looks. "I'm pretty sure we can't fire a stylist, never mind kill him. Besides, as if you could - you only killed a single tribute to win your Games!"

Woof looks hurt by this comment, so I elbow Indigo hard in the arm. Reaching around me, Mags whaps him upside the head.

"Ow... OW!" Indigo whines, rubbing his bicep and pouting.

The cheering swells just then, and Savera stands up, scanning down into the Stretch below. "Who in the name of Panem is that for? Not District 10, I'd wager." Woof snickers at this, noticeably brightening since Indigo's mocking jab.

Next to me, Mags' eyes widen. "Lu..." she warns, forcing me to look. When I do, my jaw drops.

It is my tributes bringing up the rear out of the voms. As has been the norm for at least twenty years, I had expected the usual dousing in coal-black makeup that always makes my charges look like dirty chimney-sweeps. Not so this year. Orange and red accents are licking up the blackened paste covering my four students from head to foot, making them glow like embers. Well, it's a marginal improvement anyway, and enough for the citizenry to cheer and take extra notice.

Indigo and Woof have already transitioned to taking bets on who will be the top contenders.

"My money's on the older girl from One," Woof lays down. "Did you see that smirk? Deadly."

"The little one from Five looks cunning. We could have a hider lay low till the end, then really show his mettle," Indigo muses. At Savera's look of incredulity, Indigo shrugs. "He's 15! I saw his stats on the Jumbotron."

"I think some of the outlying districts have a shot this year," Mags chips in. She nudges me, her eyes still focusing in on my chariot, turning last of all into the City Circle in the distance. On the Jumbotron above, I see the camera focus in on Haymitch, his Seam gray eyes aloof. "Lucy Gray, who's your oldest boy?"

"Haymitch. Haymitch Abernathy," I supply.

* * *

I'll say this about District 12: we may have the shoddiest Victory Record, but given that Floor 12 is the top floor of the Training Center (this year a brand-new one, built especially for the Quell), we always get the penthouse suite.

Rounding up my tributes after the parade, we ride the elevator to the top floor. Ahsoka and Terence Asher head straight off to bed; Mitzi and Maysilee follow not long after. Haymitch stays up, watching the coverage of the Tribute Parade, which I find quite boring. But since I have Haymitch alone...

"You should keep up the Ice King routine."

He turns his head a fraction away from the screen. "What?"

"You know, the whole devil-may-care attitude. The Capitol loves it." They appeared to love it enough that two sponsors approached me about pooling a gift for Haymitch (yet to be determined) while we were all still mingling after the parade.

Haymitch nods slowly, jaw tight. "I can do that." Even when sprawled on a couch, there is something about the look in his eyes that seems so... intense. Haunted, even. "Can I ask you a question?"

I blink, thrown by his willingness to talk all of a sudden. He's been mostly silent since dinner on the train ride that first night. "You can ask me anything."

"Where does the arena end?"

I frown. "I'm afraid I don't understand."

"Sure, you do. Every arena is an enclosed space, right? That means it's finite - it can't just go on forever."

"I suppose so," I frown. It's been so long, but recalling back to my Games, that arena was a gladiatorial one in design, with stands and everything. There had been an entrance, thanks to the grand tour we received before-hand, and therefore, it had an exit. And the grandstands didn't just stretch up into the heavens indefinitely. Ever since then, though, tributes have been more focused on surviving and killing than trying to escape. Haymitch's query makes my stomach clench. He asks too many questions... is too inquisitive... that could cost him. I cover up my disquiet by rolling my eyes.

"The Gamemakers don't want you looking for the exit, Haymitch. They want you to kill the other tributes."

The tightness in my voice makes Haymitch flinch just a bit, though his gaze remains hard. Thinking. Scowling, he presses the point, "But don't you know what's at the end?"

"No," I blink honestly. "I don't." Studying him, I sigh. "Haymitch... don't go looking for trouble, OK? Play by their rules, that's how you make it out alive."

Haymitch is quiet as he considers this information. Finally, he shrugs flippantly and switches off the remote. "I'm going to bed."


	3. Training and Interviews, Part I

**Chapter 3: Training and Interviews, Part I**

I let Mitzi do the dirty work of waking my tributes up bright and early the next morning. Accompanying them down for the ride in the elevators, I drop my four charges off at the Training Center with some crucial pieces of advice:

"Take this time to try something new. Absorb any new skills as quickly and as much as possible. Do not, under any circumstances, show off what you're good at to the competition. Save that for your private sessions with the Gamemakers the day after tomorrow."

"What about making new friends? Allies?"

If she wasn't so young, I would have laughed at Ahsoka's question. Instead, I just bite my lip and gently advise, "Maybe focus on new skills for now, not new friends." I have a policy - really a philosophy - on allies in the arena. And that is they can be useful, but only in certain situations. Otherwise, avoid any deep relationships with the other tributes like the plague. Maybe that outlook is tainted from my experiences with Jessup, my own district partner. But I've also had enough tributes enter partnerships only for it to come back and literally result in their downfall later. No, allies would not be a good idea.

The next three days, while my students are in training, Mitzi and I sequester ourselves in the penthouse, working the phones. Although I have always dearly wished to have a fellow Victor as a partner (a wish that the Games has denied), Mitzi is actually a competent substitute, able to earn her keep. Plus, she seems to make in-roads with certain prominent Senators and tycoons better than I ever could. Just as I suspected, Haymitch and Maysilee are getting plenty of buzz. Sponsors are intrigued by their good looks, and Haymitch is getting all the more chatter from what influencers think is a bloodthirsty attitude. Telling him to keep on playing the Ice King was definitely a good move. There is close to zero mention of Ahsoka and Terence Asher, and though it pains my heart, I know that no matter the comments I might throw in about my youngest tributes, the circumstances can't really be helped. Small tributes are almost always written off, unless they pull off a surprise and make it into the final rounds. This task, though, is almost always accomplished by hiding, and even then has never gotten anyone farther than the Final Four. No, there isn't any question: unless something truly weird happens, Terence Asher and Ahsoka are going to die. It is merely a matter of when and how.

At dinner in the evenings, my tributes return and regale me with stories and reports from inside the Training Center. It almost feels like espionage, because even if there is no hope for them, I will say this much: Terence Asher and Ahsoka are astonishingly observant. Maysilee and Haymitch, all the more so. They have quickly come to understand that the oldest girl from District 1 should be given a wide berth, and that she will likely emerge as Leader for the sprawling Career pack that is already a dozen tributes strong. Though I don't have to say it, I still do anyway: "Never get in their sights."

Weapons training seems to be going well. Maysilee has decided to major in axe-throwing and also specialize in small broadswords. She also enthusiastically tells me of how she chanced upon a seminar at the Darts Range, and loved using the blowguns there.

I can't help but chuckle in amusement. The Darts Range is one of the least popular spots in the Training Center. I've rarely seen someone use its skills in the arena. But if Maysilee wants to dabble, who am I to stop her?

Haymitch, meanwhile, appears to have spent all his time at the Knife-Throwing Range - a report that concerns me. Any old mediocre tribute can handle themselves competently with a knife; in the arena, blades like that are a dime a dozen. I can't help but feel that if Haymitch really wants to stand out, he should be learning new weaponry and becoming proficient at it quickly. Did he even listen to me when I said don't show off what you're already good at? My stomach roils when I cannot immediately reassure myself of my oldest tribute's listening skills. He's ignored me before.

The end of the third day affords us a quick lunch break up in the penthouse before my tributes have to return downstairs for their private sessions with the Gamemakers. Before I dismiss them, I tell all four: "Make sure they remember you."

Since we have double the numbers this year, the private sessions take all afternoon, evening and well into the night. Ahsoka is the first of mine to return, and by the time she does, it is well after dark. Haymitch is last of all with that blank and stoic stare that I've come to simultaneously love and loathe. Mitzi deals out snacks, and then we gather around the TV for the broadcast of the Training Scores.

Caesar Flickerman, his hair the color of khaki shorts this year, is practically bouncing in his chair as he starts off with District 1. When the older girl from that District nabs a score of 11, my entire face blanches. Scores of 11 are really rare, and no tribute that I know of has ever achieved a perfect score of 12. I turn to my kids, deadly serious. "No one goes near her, you hear me? Not if you value your life." Haymitch doesn't even turn his head, scowling at the screen. "Haymitch?" I have to press warningly. "I mean it." If there is ever a point where he does listen to me, this had better damn well be it.

He finally spares me a glance, and shrugs with a 'tude. "Yeah, whatever." I take it.

The rest of the names seem to go by in a blur after that. None of the other Careers achieve an 11, but get 9s and 10s. Some outlier districts, like 5 and 7 and 10, get 8s and 9s. Low to medium for the rest, except the smallest boy from District 6 manages an 8.

By the time we have reached District 8, Terence Asher has fallen asleep on the couch. I kick his ankle gently; he doesn't even stir. "Someone wake him up," I order.

"Why?" Haymitch frowns, even as Maysilee gently bends over to shake their little friend. "Our scores won't be on for another hour at least."

"I know the Mentors from Eight," I tell him. "And the last time there was a Quell, one of theirs won." Haymitch cocks an intrigued eyebrow, but doesn't say anything further.

I feel disappointed for my friends when their tributes' scores are anticlimactic - none of them score higher than a 7. Haymitch snorts. "I think I'll take my chances with any of them."

It is well past midnight when Caesar arrives at District 12 at last. Ahsoka herself is now in danger of nodding off, as she's been for the last half hour, so I push a glass of water into her hands. "Drink this, love, it's almost over." She does, and her eyes seem to brighten almost immediately with alertness. I only hope that, come two days from now, water won't be in short supply for the arena.

Next minute, however, Ahsoka wants to crawl into a hole and hide when Caesar dubs her with a score of 6. To his credit, Haymitch does his best to comfort her. ("That small boy from Three got a 2 - you're way beyond that...").

"Next up, Maysilee Donner with a score of... 9." Mitzi squeals at Caesar's pronouncement, and I hug my older girl.

"Well done, Merchant," I tell her affectionately. With our celebration, we nearly miss them giving a score of 7 to Terence Asher, who looks genuinely shocked. I smile at him encouragingly.

"You do our people proud," I tell him. Back home, I hope the descendants of the Covey are pleased.

"And last but not least, we have the imposing Haymitch Abernathy," Caesar extolls. "With a score of...10."

Maysilee clutches Haymitch's arm with a happy shout. "Way to go, Mitchy!" I crane my eyes around her to give Haymitch a pleased nod, impressed. And here I thought he was wasting his time in the Knife-Throwing Range. Whatever he did, he had better keep on doing it.

Terence Asher is starting to fade again, and Ahsoka lets out a rather rude yawn. I order everyone to bed, watching as Haymitch and Maysilee each take a little one apiece and carry them off to their rooms.

Tomorrow will be a busy morning and afternoon, preparing them for their interviews with Caesar Flickerman that night.

* * *

It might feel like our first breather of a day since the Reaping, but I know that the clock will not be my friend as the hours tick by until the evening, when all 48 tributes will be interviewed on national television. What's worse, this year, I have four tributes to prep, not two - and despite what I might think of Terence Asher's and Ahsoka's respective chances, I have to devote equal time and attention to all four. District 12 has to put their best foot forward this year, especially since this is a Quell. Ty and Cora had made an impression twenty-five years ago, further cemented by the former's Final Four finish. I want the nation to see that District 12 isn't the pathetic backwater everyone thinks it is, our single Games win aside.

So I take it upon myself to wake all my tributes up early even before Mitzi Hoops would. I decide to start with the older kids, Haymitch and Maysilee, and let the little ones sleep in. Guiding them back to a conference room in our penthouse, which overlooks the city, I begin with my Merchant girl. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the sky is only just beginning to gray, 6:00 AM. One of the few things I can appreciate about the Games is how they are hosted at the height of summer - the more daylight a tribute gets, the better. Plus, the tigers always come at night - I know from experience, which consists of years upon years of terrors in bed.

With Maysilee, we come to quickly hone an angle of charming and polite, yet bolstered by a foundational underbelly of toughness. I've dealt with Merchant tributes before who can never get over the fact that they weren't spared from the Reaping. In the past, Merchants have viewed their forced conscription into the Games less as the death sentence it actually is, and more as a humiliating demotion in social status. How can it be, they wonder, that they have been hauled into a fight to the death against their will, when the Games are supposed to be for the Seamers and the street rats of the Community Home? But neither the Capitol nor the Games care whether you are rich or poor - when the Reaping Ball speaks, its decision is final. And not even the corruption and dealings of the elite classes in the districts can stop that. Merchant tributes who fail to realize this almost always suffer an overwhelming, emotional breakdown - and a quick but brutal death in the Bloodbath, becoming nothing more than a gruesome statistic.

Not so with Maysilee Donner. One of the things I have come to admire about her is that she has grimly accepted her fate... but that doesn't mean she won't go down without a fight. She is prepared to do battle - and I think I hit on a big motivator as to why when, while roleplaying Caesar, I ask about her family.

"My parents and I run the tailor shop in Town. My twin sister, Hettie, tries to help where she can, but she's... she's very sickly. Needs a lot of in-home care."

The Donners are very fortunate to afford that kind of medical attention; almost no one in the Seam can, and it has been ever thus since I was Maysilee's age. And I recall that I have seen Hettie Donner before, bound to a wheelchair while pushing through the cobblestone streets of Town. I remember it being big news several years ago, when the contraption was special ordered and delivered expressly from the Capitol. Hardly anyone in Twelve, except for me, had even seen a wheelchair before. Make no mistake - the Donners are well off. But if Maysilee falls in the arena, it will be harder to maintain Hettie's care. Family can be the greatest fuel in a tribute's will to survive; I hope it can sustain Maysilee.

When it's Haymitch's turn, I don't waste any time. Thankfully, it doesn't take us long to find an angle - Haymitch is going for arrogant all the way, which dovetails nicely with his smartass demeanor. An arrogant angle is more common for the Career tributes, and as for me, I haven't had a tribute with this kind of attitude in at least a decade or more. Even though I know I'm roleplaying Caesar in our series of practice questions, the answers that Haymitch lobbies back leave me a little disconcerted. It's as though I'm a parent watching her child act out. But no other persona seems to suit him, and he has to play to his strengths, doesn't he? And I also have to tell myself that I might squirm at Haymitch's attitude, but Caesar and the Capitol will eat it up, especially from an outlier, underdog district. They love that shit.

When I finally dismiss Haymitch, I'm exhausted, but... hopeful. It is hard to decide between my two oldest tributes which of them might have the best chances to actually win. Right now, I am leaning very, very softly towards Maysilee, because Haymitch's attitude - if pressed too much - could come back and get him into trouble with the Gamemakers later. Yet, as long as he dances up to the line without actually crossing over, Haymitch could withstand the arena for quite some time. Both of my oldest kids are about evenly matched.

I try to keep Terence Asher and Ahsoka in their sessions for as long as I did the other two, because equity is important to me. But there is only so much that we can say or work on, outside from milking the cuteness factor for all it is worth - for Ahsoka in particular. Terence Asher becomes emotional easily, and I tell him he can lean into that, but in moderation. It's OK to cry in the interview chair - many tributes do it. But cry too much, and the sponsors will write you off as a hopeless case. Luckily, Caesar is the best at bringing nerve-wracked tributes off the ledge, and I know that he'll do the same for my fellow Covey.

When I finally close down with Terence Asher, the sun is sinking fast towards the horizon. I hustle my tributes to the showers and into their interview clothes before I descend with them all and Mitzi to the ground floor of the Training Center. A fancy limo awaits to pick us up and speed us to the studios downtown.

Cicero and Albina practically yank the quartet out of the car and shove them into the make-up chairs so fast, Ahsoka's actually tips all the way backwards and we nearly have a medical accident. I didn't think we were late, and I almost wish that Mitzi would for once take her snooty wrath out on the right people and yell at our stylists to slow the heck down. Curb their enthusiasm. Once I'm reassured that the stylists won't inadvertently send one of my kids to the ER before the Games have even begun, I take my leave and head into the auditorium.

The studio audience is already bustling, and I let an Avox usher direct me to my seat. The interviews are the only structured event of Games season, other than the Reaping, that enforces assigned seating. I am sequestered to a pair of chairs at the tail-end of the second row; not long after, Mitzi joins me in the plush seat on the aisle.

All the mentors and escorts are grouped together, in order of district, so I am seatmates with the mentors from Districts 11 and 10. To my immediate left, I hear a bellow of a laugh and smile tightly. It seems Chaff Mitchell, one of the newer Victors who lost a hand when he won a mere five years ago, is on coaching duties this year.

"Hello, Lucy Gray! My, you are looking lovely this evening!"

I keep the fake smile plastered to my face, muttering dryly, "Hello, Chaff."

"Hey, did you hear? I just had a birthday - 21! Legal age, break out the booze, baby!"

Right, like Panem's legal drinking age has actually stopped him from drinking himself sick every year since he triumphed. His mentoring partner, Seeder (who's been at this for a good fifteen years or so), is more tolerable, smiling politely at me from Chaff's other side. All the same, I miss Wolfmark Redpath, Chaff's one-time mentor who is usually on the coaching beat. At least he is a pleasant person to talk to. But, like me, the Victor of the 7th Hunger Games is pushing 60, and he needs Chaff to cycle off the mentoring duties. By now, every other district has racked up at least one male and one female Victor - a good thing, because when they can afford to, Victors mentor their tributes by gender. I have never had that luxury. Down at the other end of our row, I spy my friends - the District 8 mentors - and manage a friendly wave. Indigo gives me a thumbs-up; seeing who I'm seated next to, Woof gives me a look of sympathy when Chaff's head is turned.

The house lights dim, the music blares, getting the audience pumped up, and Caesar Flickerman bounds on stage with the vitality of someone half his age. He monologues for a full five minutes about how the Quell twist is so exciting, and then jumps right into it. Normally, Caesar can go on for a lot longer before he jumps into the sit-downs with the tributes, but since this is no ordinary year, studio executives have probably told him to keep it clipping for the sake of time.

Given the double numbers and how the Reapings appeared to be structured the way that Indigo observed at the parade, we break it down by gender, then age - ladies first, gentleman second and within that, youngest to oldest. That means for me, we'll watch Ahsoka, Maysilee, Terence Asher and Haymitch, in that order.

But first, we have to start with District 1. The second tribute up, the oldest girl from One appears positively ferocious and apparently can't wait to get into the arena. By the expiration of her three minutes, sponsors are already chanting her name.

Until my kids go, only a few of the 48 children seem to stick out in my mind. The oldest boy from 2 is about as broad as a Capitol SUV, his muscles bulging. An image in my head of him squeezing Terence Asher the way a snake would squeeze a mongoose nearly makes me squeak in fear. The small child from 5 is sly and elusive, as Indigo also observed at the Chariot Parade. Then there is the younger boy from 6 who managed that remarklable 8 in training - though short, he is well-built. Hand him a weapon he can use, and he could make trouble. A strong tribute from 6 isn't all that common, especially in hand-to-hand combat; hiding is more their speciality. All the same, I have to tap Justin Hix and Megan Hayes - 6's only two Victors who won by hiding until all the others were dead - on the shoulder in the row directly ahead of me and whisper to them, "You've got a good one there." They both nod politely.

Both of the older kids from Seven talk about how they've been wielding axes since before they could walk, and they look the part, too. All the tributes from 8 are largely forgettable, and I can't help but sadly watch my friends as they sit through interviews that are almost painful. Luckily, for District 9, it is pretty much the exact same story. The oldest boy from 10 appears quite strapping and strong, with a determined glint in his eye that most mentors would surely die for. I have to pity Seeder and Chaff, whose oldest boy can't be more than 15, and their youngest boy must have been selected from his very first Reaping. The one glimmer of promise is from their oldest girl, and if I were them, I would put my hopes in her to win.

"And now, it is on to District 12, and our first girl up is the little pixie, Ahsoka Simone!" Ahsoka seems quite surprised by how the crowd cheers for her, and their exuberance - plus Caesar's gregarious nature, quickly melts away her shyness. She plays up the cuteness angle, but doesn't move beyond that, and before long, the "Awwws" from the audience are about as consistent as a laugh track.

Then, it's Maysilee's turn. As I figured he would, Caesar asks about her home life, and she gives the answer we had practiced about her sister.

"Would this be her?" A replay of Maysilee's Reaping comes over a backdropped screen just then, showing a stunningly beautiful Merchant girl hugging Maysilee.

"No," Maysilee expresses quietly. "That's my best friend, Belle Foley. My twin sister is the one in the wheelchair." And she points Hettie out.

"You want to win for her, don't you?" Caesar reaches the heart of the matter.

"I do. And I will," Maysilee answers with fortitude. Solid response.

Terence Asher is up, and though he does cry at Caesar's first question ("How did it feel to be Reaped?"), the host's gentle murmurings and putting his arm around him calms the lad down. Before long, he is cracking jokes that even I'm laughing genuinely at - cute and exuberant quips that, though youthful, soon have the audience clamoring for more. When the buzzer sounds, Terence Asher actually does a softshoe off the stage; when he catches my eye, I give a slashing motion across my throat - _Get the hook!_ \- before he finally disappears. What a ham. Though I can appreciate his performative nature. He's Covey - it's in his blood.

Haymitch is last of all, swaggering to his chair across from Caesar like a playboy billionaire.

"Haymitch Abernathy! Now, you, my friend, are someone we have been very curious about since day one - have we not, folks?" A few fangirl screeches come from somewhere behind me, to which Haymitch responds with a saucy wink. _Don't forget adding that touch of aloofness that we talked about_ , I find myself thinking - though I'm not sweating it too much.

Apparently, Haymitch isn't either, as he smirks. "Smart man." The audience eats it up.

"We have a fighter on our hands from little old District 12 - I can tell!" Caesar crows. "So, Haymitch - how does it feel going into an arena holding 100% more tributes than usual?"

Lounging back in his chair, Haymitch doesn't even take a beat to pretend to think about it. "I don't see how it'll make much difference. They'll all be 100% as stupid as usual, so I figure my odds will be roughly the same." The audience roars, and when the camera zooms in on his face, Haymitch smirks. The upturn of his lips have just the right touch - cocky. Arrogant. Indifferent.

But then Caesar asks his next question: "Sources tell me your family life is a bit hard, Haymitch. You have a brother, yes?"

Just like that, the smirk is gone from Haymitch's face, and though he replaces it with a thin and stony line, I can detect a vulnerability in his eyes. "Yeah, two years younger. So?"

"This would be him, yes?" Like before with Maysilee, the backdrop screens Haymitch's name being called, spliced together with footage somehow taken from inside the Justice Building, when Haymitch was saying goodbye to his brother. A hot mic even picks up what Haymitch was telling Gregory.

"Where did you get that?" Haymitch's voice is more growl than words, and he looks ready to leap out of his seat and throttle Caesar by the neck. Caesar just laughs like Haymitch just told a really naughty joke.

"Does it matter?"

"It matters to me - that was private!"

 _Calm down_ , I silently plead, even as I want to smack myself. Haymitch and I didn't really dwell on his family during our prep session - he didn't put anything forward, and I didn't ask. Though I should have known that helpless Gregory Abernathy might be a soft spot for my most unpredictable tribute.

"I'm sure it was," Caesar croons dolefully. "Do you think he knows? Knows that you might not come home?"

Caesar has clearly hit a nerve, for Haymitch is now gripping the edges of his chair so hard, his knuckles are turning white. "My brother is smart," he gets out through clenched teeth. "No matter what anyone else thinks. Stupid is as stupid does, Caesar..." He doesn't make himself any more explicit than that, for which I'm relieved, but I just hope that for Caesar's sake, the point was made clear: what he did wasn't cool. "And you know something? He knows I'm going to win!"

Caesar grins with delight. "I would bet on it, if I was allowed to!" He and the audience guffaw uproariously and the buzzer sounds. "Haymitch Abernathy, ladies and gentlemen!"

As Haymitch prowls offstage, I can only hope that none of the other tributes think to use sweet Gregory as a weapon - and that if they do, Haymitch won't let that get to him. As with Maysilee, familial love can be a great motivator in the arena, but also a weakness. And if Haymitch lets his love for his brother, protectiveness of him, become a weakness, he could end up dead.


	4. Drink Your Cup of Poison

**Chapter 4: Drink Your Cup of Poison**

The nightmare in which I am submerged, a flashback to the arena when I watched - hidden in the tunnels - as Treech brought his axe down on Teslee's skull, is abruptly interrupted by the shriek of my alarm clock. Sitting up boltright in bed, I notice that the sky outside my window is not even gray yet, only navy. Probably around 5:00 in the morning. The start of the Games is but a handful of hours away.

Getting up, I shower and dress quietly, stealing out my rooms and into the kitchen of the penthouse apartment. Knowing Mitzi is also an early riser, I might have just enough time to wolf down a meal in relative solitude before she wakes. Then maybe an hour or two more before we have to rouse our tributes from their beds.

So I am rather shocked when I enter the kitchen to find all four of my students huddled around the table, clutching mugs of tea that have no steam wafting from them as they have long turned cold.

I have to take a deep shuddering breath to keep from crying. "Couldn't sleep?" I croak out, trying to make the comment light. It still sounds forced.

"Nope," Haymitch pops the 'P' in the word as he sits, hands folded together in front of his nose, almost as if in prayer. Across from him, Terence Asher is cuddled in Maysilee's lap, shaking so violently, I fear he has contracted hypothermia. But no, these tremors aren't from the cold - they are from primal _fear_. Right next to them, all the color has seemingly drained from Ahsoka's face.

"It's... it's gonna be OK," I say weakly, mostly to the younger kids. I can't think of any other way to tell them they must have courage. Haymitch glares in my direction, chastising me for lying, even if it is to spare the little ones. I ignore his scrutiny. He might not need the comfort, but the others clearly do. The silence stretches on for several minutes. "Well, have any of you lot had breakfast?"

"I'm not hungry," Maysilee mumbles, her voice distant, and she tightens her grip on Terence Asher until he whimpers, squirming against her. Across from her, Haymitch fails to stifle a guffaw behind his lips, so that he ends up making a raspberry sound.

"You say that now..." he mumbles dryly.

Maysilee glowers at him. "Knock it off, Haymitch."

I have to fight to suppress an eyeroll. "Well, I'm an excellent cook," I prattle, striding to the stove. "And I do take orders."

"Omelet, please," Terence Asher pipes up meekly. "And sausages."

I glance to Maysilee one more time as I fire up the skillet, my gaze pleading with her. Once the gong goes off, she is going to need whatever strength she possesses, and there is no telling where food may next come, or when. She merely shakes her head. As I begin cooking Terence Asher's eggs, I hear a throat clearing behind me. I ignore it at first, but when he does it again, I turn back to Haymitch, making a show of remembering that he is there. "Did you want something, Haymitch?"

"Toss a few more sausage rolls in for me," he grunts. "Please," he amends quickly before I can admonish him on poor manners. If Mitzi were awake, that's what she would be doing. "And keep filling my cup with lemonade."

"Clear water is better than sugar water, Haymitch," I sigh. There's a good chance that hydration of any kind will be in short supply come 10:00. But I fill his glass anyway.

"Miss Baird?" Ahsoka pipes up meekly.

"Ahsoka, you know me well enough by now - call me Lucy Gray," I smile at her kindly.

"You can sing, right?"

I blink at her for a moment, face flushing. I try to not acknowledge Haymitch studying me with intrigue. "I used to... when I was a little girl... not anymore..."

"Would you sing for me? That's what I would like for breakfast," and the little girl's voice is so sweet, I can't find it in my heart to say No.

And so, for the first time in decades, I let the music flow through my heart and from my lips:

" _Deep in the meadow... under the willow... a bed of grass... a soft green pillow... Lay down your head and close your sleepy eyes..._ "

Ahsoka's eyes do close as she takes in the melody, and maybe it's a trick of the overhead lighting, but I think I see a tear leak from her left iris. My throat threatens to clog up again, but I finish the tune as strong as I can. When I finally finish, Maysilee quietly applauds.

I serve up Haymitch and Terence Asher's food, before taking a seat at the head of the silent table. Absolute stillness, stillness like the death that may very well come for some of the people gathered here by day's end, pervades for the remaining hours. The time seems unable to make up its mind about the speed at which it should move - at one point, five minutes elapse in what feels like an hour. At another, I glance at the clock and two whole hours have slipped away. The sun is in the heavens now, and rising fast against the majestic Capitol skyline. Loud hues of orange and red streak across Haymitch's brooding face as the light of day - along with time - marches steadily on.

The clock chimes 9 AM. One hour remaining, and Terence Asher begins to tremble again, having still not left Maysilee's lap. Right after the hour has been fully struck, Mitzi bustles in.

"You sure are up early," I crack teasingly. I've never known Mitzi to sleep this late. My attempt at levity, however, falls horribly flat when I take in my escort's nervous but resigned face as she studies each of our tributes in turn. "Well, I'm... I'm afraid it's time. Your arena grab is in the far left corner of each of your closets. Return to your rooms and get dressed, then meet back here in twenty minutes."

"I'll help you, Terence Asher," Maysilee murmurs crooningly in the little boy's ear, then carries him into the hall. Ahsoka has started crying. Haymitch starts to stalk from the room, but when he hears his ally's distress, he pauses, doubles back, and takes the little girl by the hand. I smile wanly in approval.

My kids actually take closer to twenty five minutes to all change and then regroup by the elevators, but if Mitzi is put off by their slight tardiness, she thankfully declines to dwell on it. Squeezing into the elevator car, I press the button, and this time we begin to ascend, for a brief trip to the roof of the Training Center.

I shield my eyes against the glare as we all step out into the open. A hovercraft awaits us at the far end of the roof, two sets of rotors spinning at a lazy speed. With an open, military transport design, I can see into the belly of the plane and recognize the tributes from Districts 3 and 8. Looks like the tributes will be shuttled to the arena a dozen at a time.

Pausing a short distance away from the aircraft, I kneel to hug Ahsoka and Terence Asher tightly. In all probability, I will never see these two small children again. I never like to traffic in ageist thinking, but statistics of the Games show that most younger tributes die by the end of the first day. These two may well be gone by nightfall. Still, I tell them, "Find freshwater as quickly as you can. Choose running before risking retrieval of a weapon."

Ahsoka nods. Terence Asher has gone deathly pale. With very small "Goodbyes," the little ones turn and climb aboard the hovercraft.

Then I face Maysilee and Haymitch. "If you must go towards the horn, do your damnedest to get what you need and get out quickly. Only engage when absolutely necessary and only if you are 100% confident it's a fight you can win."

"Anything else?" Maysilee asks, her expression resolute.

I smirk. "I thought that was obvious: stay alive."

Maysilee nods shortly and heads for the plane. As Haymitch turns to follow her, I am suddenly struck - while studying him - with an almost debilitating fear. Fear of what he might do once on the inside of the arena. Fear of him going rogue in such a way that he would incur the Gamemaker's vengeful wrath. It is always good to have a dangerous tribute - a fighter - but there is such a thing as a tribute who is _too_ dangerous.

"Haymitch, listen -" I blurt out. He turns back. I have to make him somehow see that he should have one focus while he's in there. Don't think about or go looking for a bigger picture. None of the other tributes will; that's not what they're there for. I hope I convey my message clearly when I thus impart upon him this last bit of advice: "Remember who the real enemy is."

Haymitch bobs his head, jaw set, then lumbers after Maysilee. Standing back with Mitzi as the rotors pick up speed, I watch as a Peacekeeper starts injecting my tributes with their trackers, while the plane lifts off the roof and speeds away into the distance.

Remaining on the roof until the hovercraft is but a speck in the sky, I turn to Mitzi with a jerk of the head. "Come on."

Stepping back into the elevator, Mitzi glances at her wrist chronometer quickly and yelps. "9:35!"

"Relax, Hoops - Games don't go off till 10:00. We have plenty of time," I grumble, as I press the button leading to the floor _between_ the penthouse suite and the roof. When the doors DING open, the waft of cigarette smoke greets my nostrils.

My escort and I step into the sleek and polished Mentors' Bar, shiny and new just like this year's Training Center despite the haze of second-hand smoke hanging in the air. A row of plush booths line both far walls of the space, in between which round tables are pocketed. Fellow Victors are mingling, talking, setting gambling bets.

Nearly all of the mentors on duty this year are present. Add in the escorts, and a smattering of sponsors hovering about to lay down first gifts, and the bar is pretty crowded. Despite this, the bar counter is still half-empty, and I nudge Mitzi towards it. The stools at the bar are some of the best seats in here, so we'd better grab some while we can.

Sidling up to the counter, I flag down the bartender. "Bourbon, on the rocks! But make it the lightest you can." I can't let myself imbibe too much; I have to remain focused on my tributes.

Unless, of course, none of them make it out of the Bloodbath.

Feeling a tap on my shoulder, I turn into Indigo hugging me.

"There you are!" And we lightly kiss cheeks. "See your kiddies off?"

"They made the last hovercraft, along with yours and District 3 - and mine were all up before dawn!"

"See, now I feel better about getting such a late start - _someone_ forgot to set our alarm clock," and he chances a glare at Woof, seated to his immediate left. Woof merely returns fire with a childish sneer and turns his face down into his shot glass.

I frown. "You guys are roommates?"

"Tragically," Indigo grimaces, accepting a thimble of brown liquid from the bartender. "Still wanna crown a Victor? - you'll only have to share everything!"

"Oh, boy," I mutter dryly.

"Hey, you two." Mags leads the other District 4 mentors to commandeer the remainder of the barstools, her eyes trailing off to the muted flatscreen TVs above us. "Templesmith's doing talking heads coverage, I see."

"Bartender will crank it up at 10," Indigo tips his entire shot glass back with a practiced flick of his head and wrist. Setting it down on the counter with a wobble, he points at something behind it. "Check out the stats."

In the center of the space behind the bar, a holographic rendering of the arena has already been pixelated before us. It's a schematic of the arena, and once I get a feel for the layout, I wince. There appears to be an expansive, maze-like forest stretching from the center to the east. In the far northwest quadrant, a snow-peaked mountain, dotted with sheer cliff faces and a spider-web of caves. The center of the arena is an almost... pleasant meadow, from what I can tell, and it is here that the Cornucopia rests. It's a little hard to make out much else, because the entire hologram is tinged in a royal blue. Behind this schematic, there are holographic screens continuously running the prospective stats of each and every tribute. Not only do these include training scores, but also reveal weapons of choice based on what Gamemakers observed during training and the tribute's private sessions. Even ordinarily mundane things like height, weight and muscle mass ratios are tabulated.

A body sways into me from behind and I turn to see Chaff settle into the space between Indigo's and my barstools. He flags the bartender down, who is able to effectively circumnavigate the giant hologram taking up much of his work space as he works the bar from one end to the other.

"Hey, barman! Bloody Mary, on the rocks!" The dark-skinned Victor nudges Indigo in the side. "Make a space, will you, Weaver? I'm already falling-down drunk!"

"No, Chaff, get your own chair!" Indigo playfully shoves him away, even as the Quarter Quell Victor laughs.

Sipping my drink, I anxiously watch the clock. Ten minutes remain till the top of the hour. Sweeping the bar with my eyes, I search for those two sponsors who had approached me about backing Haymitch at the end of the tribute parade. There isn't any sign of them, but I hope they'll be along. Technically, sponsors cannot go in on gifts until the gong sounds to begin the Games themselves, which only makes sense. The tributes should begin on relatively equal footing, or at least, as equal as we can make it.

Back in a corner booth, I can see the Career mentors (save for District 4) have all gathered together and are talking in low voices, now doubt planning strategy. In a normal year, the Career pack is an intimidating alliance. With double the numbers, it will be damn near impossible for an outlying tribute to outlast all of them.

There's the voice of Claudius Templesmith in my ear suddenly, chatting animatedly with Caesar Flickerman, but when I turn back to the flatscreens, they're still muted. Five minutes to go... Glancing to my left, I see Mags fiddling with a transistor radio that appears to be broadcasting the coverage. I can't help but grin teasingly.

"You listen to the coverage even before the screens go live? Nerd!"

Mags shrugs. "We all have our quirks. Besides, there's often something important that Claudius says which we miss."

"... sources tell us that the arean this year is laced with poison everywhere..."

"Hold up," I freeze as my blood turns to ice. "Can you rewind that?"

Mags grimaces apologetically. "Sorry. No can do."

"Did Claudius just say the entire arena is spiked with _poison_?!"

Now Mags is alert, and waves me down. "Ssssh! Listen."

"Yes, the Head Gamemaker has informed me that all vegetation and potential food and water sources which originate within the arena will be poisonous. Such a marvelous twist for this Quell's tributes..." Caesar is giggling.

Horrified, Mags and I look at each other. I can tell she is thinking exactly the same as me. In my Games, poison was my weapon of choice in the arena. It was largely the reason I won. Nowadays, poison is taught in the Training Center stations, and included in the Games themselves, as a weapon to be avoided, not one to wield. All of a sudden, I wish I had encouraged my kids to pay attention in the Poison seminar that Atala, the Head Trainer, would have surely offered.

The bartender flicks the remote and cranks up the volume on the TV screen. Roars and bloodthirsty cheers go up as many of the other mentors are now out of their seats and rushing the bar, clamoring to get a look. I turn to see the District 9 female mentor, Sylva Mayleaf, jostled next to me. Smiling soflty, she gives me a squeeze on my shoulder, and I nod cordially.

We are now seeing the first glimpses of the arena from one of the tributes' perspectives, as they ride up the tubes on their pedestal. The meadow is vast, with the jagged and gun-metal gray yawning mouth of the Cornucopia looming about a hundred yards away. Weapons, backpacks and a variety of other supplies spill from the mouth itself and out into the calf-high grasses.

There are so many pedestals this year, that it takes me most of that critical minute to spot my kids, and where they are in relation to the horn. As we hit five seconds remaining, I have located everybody but Ahsoka, when the camera happens to zoom in on Haymitch. By the look on his face, he seems unimpressed, though one eyebrow is spiked nearly into his hairline.

The first tone of the gong has just come in on the air, and Haymitch is already off his pedestal and running, the first out of all 48 to move. He flies to a backpack roughly forty yards ahead of him, snatches it up, then turns tail and runs for the forest to the east. I never realized he was such a talented sprinter. My oldest boy has hit the treeline before a quarter of the field have even stepped off their pedestals.

Most of the other tributes rapidly congeal in the shadow of the horn, while others have already taken off like Haymitch for the trees, or are turning to face the mountain in the distance. The feed monkey-cams in on a girl with blond hair, and with a jolt, I realize it's Maysilee. She has just reached a backpack, about equidistant from the pedestal on which she started and the Cornucopia. Sligning it over her shoulder, something in the grasses catches her eye, and she picks it up. At first glance, it looks like a staff, or the brunt end of the spear, except it's shorter.

"Check it out!" The booming voice of Brutus Gunn, a District 2 mentor who was only crowned the year before last, chortles. Glancing down to the hologram schematic, my heart leaps into my throat when I see the red dot rapidly racing towards the one indicating my girl tribute. NERO SNIPER, 2, it reads.

"Maysilee, get out of there!" I cry. Brutus just laughs.

Maysilee glances up just in time. As Nero bears down, she leaps out of the way as he windmills a pair of short blades towards her neck, which Caesar helpfully identifies as sai. With nothing but a blunt stick in her hands, Maysilee barely has anything with which to defend herself, but she shows no fear. Dropping into a fighting stance, she waits as Nero lunges for her again. Twirling the stick around and around, she manages to catch one of Nero's hands, twisting the sai in it off and away, then rapidly blocks the other blade. Kicking Nero hard in the stomach, the shocked Career is launched onto his back, knocking the wind out of him...

... and his remaining blade out of his grasp.

Nero has no time to get up before Maysilee is on him, bringing the stick down on his skull once, twice, three times almost in a blur. There is sickening CRUNCH, and then a cannon.

BOOM.

Brutus's jaw drops. "What the fuck, Twelve?!"

"Awww..." Indigo baby-talks sarcastically. "Does someone need a bottle?"

Growling, Brutus lunges for the Quarter Quell Victor. James Logan, a peer of his from District 5, holds him back. "Walk it off, Brutus! Walk away..."

Craning around Indigo, Savera nods to me encouragingly. "Good kill!"

I smirk in thanks, even as I watch Maysilee anxiously. Now, she turns tail and runs, panting, into the forest. She's made it a couple of miles before she leans against a tree to rest, taking the break to study the stick in her hands. The stick which helped save her life.

"And what an upset by Maysilee Donner from District 12, of all places! Let's see what weapon brought down the first Career of these Games!" Caesar is jabbering.

The camera focuses in, and when I get a good look, I nearly laugh: this stick has a _hole_ in it. Maysilee managed to bludgeon a Career (the smallest boy from 2, but still) with nothing but a hollow _stick_.

"What the hell is it?" Chaff asks, nearly in my ear.

Maysilee can't tell, either, as she turns the thing this way and that. Putting the open end to her lips, she blows. It doesn't make a sound.

"What does she think she's gonnna do? Join a band?" one of the District 7 mentors laughs. I glower at him half-heartedly.

"It's a blowgun," Mags interjects.

"What?" I turn to her sharply.

"A blowgun," and she turns the screen of the holopads intermittenly planted along the counter in my direction. A blue rendering of the stick, I mean blowgun, is spinning.

I frown. "What good's a blowgun if it has no darts to go with it?"

As if in answer, Maysilee has now taken to studying the contents of the backpack. Thank her lucky stars! There are two dozen darts inside. No wonder - the blowgun itself was lying right next to this same pack. Likely a matching set. Good thing she grabbed both.

"Lu!" Woof is now shaking my shoulder and pointing to the leftmost flatscreen.

Ahsoka is just beginning to reach the edge of the treeline, when a bush catches her eye. A bush filled with bright, purple berries.

Immediately, my stomach clenches, and I suddenly wish I had pushed the issue of Ahsoka not wanting anything tangible for breakfast this morning. "No..." I whisper. "Leave it be, girl..."

Ahsoka doesn't listen. Grabbing a fistful of the berries, her eyes gleaming, she pops them into her mouth. Within seconds, she is violently convulsing, flopping back into the pine needles at her feet. Eyes growing still, a dribble of silvery liquid protrudes from her mouth, and there is the cannon.

Indigo pats my shoulder. "Sorry, Lu," he mumbles.

Just then, a Peacekeeper approaches the Quarter Quell Victor. "Mr. Weaver: this way, please. Your presence has been requested."

Indigo smiles goodnaturedly as he gets up from his barstool. "Proposition," he hisses in my ear. "I'll be back soon. Let me know if anything happens to mine." He pecks me on the cheek and is gone.

I slunk back on my stool. I knew Ahsoka was never going to make it, but I had hoped she would make it beyond... Her stats pop up on one of the holographic screens, and I squint: 39th.

"Lucy Gray..." Someone's voice is trying to break in between the ringing in my ears. "Lucy Gray!"

Both Woof and Savera behind him are now jostling me and shouting, frantically pointing at the center screen. My heart starts to roller-coaster in my stomach all over again. Will I ever get a break?

Apparently not, because Claudius is hooting, "Oooh, looks like we'll be seeing which tribute can claim this as their side of the mountain!"

On camera, little Terence Asher has neared the foothills at the base of the mountain. Only a thick hedgegrove blocks his immediate path forward. The little boy glances this way and that, trying to find a way around it, and I want to groan. If he just went two hundred paces in either direction, he would eventually be able to circumvent the stupid bush. As it is, Terence Asher tries to double back, but freezes when a tribute - the schematic of the arena identifies him as AFT HEADWIND, 4 - rises up from the meadow grasses.

Horrified, I recognize this boy as Mags' smallest, the one who is still triple in size to Terence Asher. Snapping my gaze to my friend, she merely cringes and mouths, 'Sorry.'

"How goes it, Twelve?" Aft taunts. Terence Asher can only whimper in answer, which makes Aft bark out a laugh. "Awww... you gonna cry, little runt? It'll be over soon!" And raising a broadsword, he lets out a war cry and rushes him; with no backpack or weapon, Terence Asher desperately puts up his hands to block -

Even as his body, in a strange sort of indecision, starts to sidestep out of the way. Consequently, both tributes' feet get tangled. With a shout, Terence Asher falls onto his side, while Aft pitches past him and forward...

... right onto the thorns of the hedge-grove, which pierce him clean through his spleen, heart and left lung.

BOOM.

Librae, Mags' apprentice, stares down the bar at me. "Lucy Gray! What was that for?"

I wince, almost embarrassed. "Now... it was an accident..."

"Knock it off!" Mags growls. "We still have three dogs in this fight. And Lu is right: it was just an accident!"

Meanwhile, a disbelieving Terence Asher has started to cry, gaping at what he just did. Sniffling, he gently pulls Aft free from the thorns so that his body flops back into the dirt. Glancing down at Aft, then back at the hedge, Terence Asher takes a deep, shuddering breath and rushes forward. Using Aft's corpse as a springboard, he manages a flying leap up and over the hedge, landing like a tumbler on the other side. Of course - he _is_ Covey, after all. Popping up and dusting himself off, Terence Asher continues on his path to the mountain, unencumbered. The holographic screens mark Aft's finish: 33rd.

Barely a half hour in, and I'm already drained. Just then, a man with crimson hair and a nose ring sidles up to me.

"Miss Baird, I would like to sponsor one of your tributes."

"Who? Terence Asher?" Perhaps my smallest boy did better than I thought.

"No. The girl. A bottle of water."

"Thank you very much," I express. "Lead the way, Mr...?"

"Severus," he supplies.

I smile gratefully.

Severus guides me to the very rear of the bar, where two Peacekeepers are guarding a holo-table. Lining the back wall on either side of the raised disc are rows of vending machines, housing any type of supply.

"I'm sponsoring a gift for Maysilee Donner, District 12," Severus announces.

"What's the gift?" the Peacekeeper at our left grunts.

"A bottle of water."

The coin changes hands, and the Peacekeeper inserts it into the vending machine. Presses a button. A bottled water tumbles out and the Peacekeeper hands it to Severus, who passes it to me, along with the coins I will need to send the gift.

"May the odds be ever in your favor." He strides away.

I study the water in my hand. Maysilee somehow has to become aware that everything in the arena is poisonous without her losing her life. But a mentor who divulges one of the arena's secrets to their tribute is definitely classified as cheating. And how could I send a coded message on a water bottle... with two Peacekeepers watching me?

Suddenly, shouting and a loud crash is heard behind me: Brutus has gotten into a fight with Daniel Bernhardt, one of the mentors from 9. Both Peacekeepers have to abandon their post to break it up. With the holo-table unguarded, I work fast. Carefully peeling the Dasani label off the water bottle, I pluck a black Sharpie from my pocket and scribble a message on the white inside of the label. Then, to make sure Maysilee sees it, I draw a big, fat arrow on the front of the label, before meticulously reattaching it to the bottle.

Placing the bottle in the black pot, which hangs from a parachute, I insert the coin into the proper slot, then select Maysilee's name out of the thirty tributes still remaining. The entire gift seems to break into little pixels before disappearing entirely.

Sighing, I stride back to the bar counter, passing the Peacekeeper guards returning in the other direction. Woof pats the seat he saved for me with a smile, even pulling out my stool. I graciously beam at him as I retake my seat.

Before long, the cameras return to Maysilee. I watch as she observes the parachute – announced by the tinkling of bells – float down to her feet. Digging through the pot, she snatches up the water bottle with a relived grin.

"Thanks, Lucy Gray!" Then, she pauses, and I know she has seen the arrow prompting her to turn over the label. Peeling the label off, she reads what I have written, and the color drains from her face. Maysilee hisses through her clenched underbite. "All right, then….."

Try as Caesar, Claudius and the Capitol crew might, they can't get a camera angle in to broadcast just what Maysilee read. And my oldest girl is smart too, for she proceeds to rip up the Dasani label into the tiniest bits possible before letting them flutter to the earth. Clenching the water bottle in her fist, she struggles on.

Everyone else might be dying to know what I wrote, but I am just glad only Maysilee and I do:

DON'T TOUCH ANYTHING – ARENA ALL POISONOUS.


	5. Requiem on the Mount

**Chapter 5: Requiem on the Mount**

Eighteen tributes die that first day. In a normal year, that would blast us right past the traditional Final Eight, and likely leave all the Careers as the last six tributes standing. This year, however, with a field still worth 1.25 arenas, the Career pack is bursting with ten fighters who - after picking over the Cornucopia - stalk for the mountain to hunt tributes. The only two Careers missing are the ones that my tributes had taken out. As the coverage focuses on the Career pack prowling along the mountain slopes and the cliffs, Caesar actually turns this factoid into a funny little gag, wondering which District 12 will strike next and which Career will fall.

Facetious as it is, Caesar will probably, hopefully, have to wait a while before one of my kids does battle with the Careers. The 10-member pack manages to traverse the mountain's terrain with dizzying efficiency. Thankfully, Terence Asher - my only tribute even on the mountain with them - is close to a half-day ahead of them; he's about 300 feet higher in elevation. His tussle with Aft Headwind has definitely traumatized him, for Terence is back to shivering like a rabbit. And the shuddering only gets worse as that first night in the arena falls. Since the Games are held at the height of summer, temperatures in the arena are commonly 80 or 90 degrees - conditions ripe for dehydration. This first evening, the lows are fairly natural - somewhere in the 60s - but there's no guarantee it will stay that way. The Gamemakers have been known to mess with the arena's temperature controls the longer the Games go on, as a way to test a tribute's will to survive. It's a practice that's quite common, which makes me glad that my kids' arena garb was outfitted with a light jacket. I just hope the jacket will be sufficient enough for Terence Asher to brave the elements; Tribute Stats indicate the boy has very little fat on him, a point made startingly clear when he curls up in the fetal position along a windy plateau. The hot mics actually pick up on his teeth chattering. I pray my youngest boy will make it through the night.

Meanwhile, Maysilee has taken shelter in a particularly choked thicket of trees, ensuring that few tributes would be brave enough to come in after her. Despite the fact that, as a Merchant, Maysilee has never wanted for food back in Twelve, she is still remarkably thin. In this case, her skinniness allows her to slip past the thorny bushes (which, thanks to Aft, we now know are laced with posion) without getting pricked. Maysilee is able to squirm into such tight places that I have to ponder the possibility that she might have an eating disorder. It wouldn't be an outlandish therory - Merchant culture in Twelve is known to place an unhealthy emphasis on how someone looks. What's more, it would explain why Maysilee was so averse to eating anything in those final hours before she entered the arena. Having been enlightened to the poison surrounding her, I hope that Maysilee will be able to either survive on very little, or find something safe to consume until I can get her a sponsor gift of foodstuffs.

Luckily, that is where her backpack comes in, and safely burrowed in her thicket, Maysilee finally gets the chance to rifle through her plunder. Along with the two dozen darts, she discovers a bowl - empty - and a pack of beef jerky. I hope for her sake that the snack holds, never mind the bottled water. But my eldest girl is smart, sipping from the bottle and nibbling on the jerky very conservatively. When the Panem anthem blares and the faces of the tributes killed that first day appear in the sky, I notice Maysilee's eyes become streaked with tears upon seeing Ahsoka's face round out the dead. This is followed by pleasant surprise in deducing that Terence Asher must have survived, and my Merchant tribute finally settles down to sleep.

The first night in the arena passes uneventfully. As we get into the wee hours, most of the mentors vacate the bar to return to their private quarters, all of them leaving standing orders with their escorts to notify them by phone if anything exciting happens. Only a handful of sponsors remain behind too, including the two whom had expressed interest in supporting Haymitch. But they haven't approached me yet; perhaps they are waiting to see if my eldest boy has what it takes to make it into the final rounds.

Sometime around 6:00 the next morning, as the sun begins to rise and Caesar comes back on the air to relieve Claudius of duty (even with their boundless energy, those two need to trade off and get some rest sometime), Indigo finally returns to the bar. His partners, Woof and Savera, have remained with me throughout the night; Mags and her girls stumbled off to bed hours ago, but should be due back soon.

Woof cocks an eyebrow as Indigo plops into the seat between him and me. "What sponsor needed to have you in bed for the better part of..." he checks the chronometer. "Twenty f'ing hours?"

"Pearl Solana was the least of my problems," Indigo chuckles darkly. "We went at it for more like three, and as I was making my way back here, when Peacekeepers summoned me to the studio to film some special with Caesar about my Quell victory. I have to wait past dinner before the cheeky bastard finally shows up. We only finished wrapping takes about half an hour ago!"

Savera rolls her eyes. "Oh, for Panem's sake! Do they really have to keep you in the spotlight that much, just because you won the last Quell?"

Indigo shrugs. "You know they love that shit." He orders a drink from the bartender. "I pity the poor kid who will have to go through that after winning this thing." Downing his glass, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "I heard eighteen tributes went down. How many of ours?"

Savera cringes hard, and Indigo's eyes narrow. "Fuck it all, Savera, just tell me already! I can take it!"

"Three of ours are dead," she whispers quietly.

Indigo lets out a raggedy breath. "Who made it out?"

"Quilt," Woof informs him. "Our littlest girl."

"Goddamn it!" Indigo bangs his shot glass down hard on the counter. "We're going to lose - again!"

"That's no way to be thinking," I frown.

"Why not? It's true." There is a moment of silence while Indigo broods cynically. Then he turns sharply to me. "How are you doing? And Mags?"

"I only lost my youngest girl, to some poisonous berries. My older ones are safe in the woods, and Terence Asher's on the mountain. He actually managed to get the upper hand on Mags' littlest boy."

Indigo whistles, impressed. "How did Terence Asher manage that?"

"Don't ask. It's still a sore spot," Muscida Selkirk appears, sniffing, her nose in the air. Neither she nor Librae deign to look in my direction as they find stools as far away from me as possible. Mags is a better sport about it, rubbing me on the shoulder.

"They'll get over it," she murmurs quietly. "Any deaths during the night?"

"No, thankfully." I order her a drink and slide it down the counter. "I've never liked it when we have overnight deaths, becuase then the timing of death gets murky - did they die on the first day, or the second day?"

Woof nods slowly. Then his eyes focus in on the center flatscreen and he gives me a little shake. "Lu!"

Following his gaze, I finally get a glimpse of Haymitch for the first time in nearly twenty-four hours. He doesn't look any weaker since he started the Games, but that may yet change. The feed is now showing him swaying to a pause as he sorts his backpack. I catch the glimpse of a short but sharp knife, a tarp and three green apples.

Good. Now if only I could get a sponsor to send him a bottle of water, like Maysilee. The early morning cool will be burned off by the heat of the day before long, and then -

BOOM. BOOM. Two cannons suddenly fire in rapid succession, just in time for a steady stream of mentors to trickle into the bar for the day. Immediately, the counter is swamped as everyone is all talking at once, trying to figure out who has perished.

From the reverberations of the cannons, the deaths must have occurred somewhere close by to Haymitch. My oldest boy must conclude this as well, for he takes off in an north-easterly direction, following the sound. Before long, he comes to a clearing, at the center of which are the sprawled corpses of two tributes. It's the two oldest kids from District 5 (I turn to see James Logan bury his head in his hands). Cautiously, Haymitch approaches the pair. Kneeling beside the boy, he takes in the blank stare, the silvery liquid dribbling from his lower lip.

The clump of berries in his right hand...

Haymitch stares at the berries, then turns back to the silvery substance. Tentatively, he reaches out a hand towards the boy's lower lip. All of my muscles now seem to lock up, heart hammering in my ribcage.

"No, Haymitch!" I cry out. "Don't touch it!"

It's impossible that he could hear me, but nevertheless, Haymitch leaves his finger hovering over, but not touching, the silver dribble. Brow creased in thought, his grey eyes finally widen in understanding, and he swivels his gaze back to the berries, just to make sure his theory is sound.

"It's poison," he whispers, but the hot mic catches it clearly. I sag back into my chair in relief. He figured it out. Now, he'll hopefully know not to go anywhere near anything growing naturally in the arena.

Haymitch now ponders the District 5 girl. Chunks of flesh have been torn clean off her. Teeth marks are clearly visible. Teeth marks that clearly do not belong to a human. These dental indentations were created by an animal. But which animal?

 _No, not an animal_ , I think as my face goes white. _A mutt_.

Right at that moment, a yellow, carnivorous squirrel lands lightly on the stomach of the corpse of the girl. Haymitch blinks at it for a moment, then smiles softly, letting out a chuckle.

The chuckle doesn't last long when the squirrel lunges for him, baring its teeth.

Good thing Haymitch has his knife already in his hands, for the squirrel only manages to land on him before he is sinking the blade clean through the little beast's temple. Shuddering, Haymitch nudges the dead squirrel off of him, when another lands on his elbow. This time, the squirrel sinks its teeth into the flesh there, and Haymitch growls with pain, eyes widening again in horror. Now he gets it.

He slashes the squirrel across the throat and hurls it off, then whirls around to take out a third flying towards him in mid-air. A fourth attacks. Then a fifth. Then a sixth. Not all of them manage to take a bite out of my tribute before he skewers them, but those that do bring terrible pain.

Finally, when Haymitch has managed to beat back over a dozen squirrels, the assault lets up. My oldest boy is panting, winded, sweaty and uncharacteristically shaken, at least for him.

I am shaking so much in relief that Indigo has to put an arm around me. "He's all right... he's all right..." The Quarter Quell Victor soothes.

Someone taps me on the shoulder, and I nearly jump a foot in the air. Whirling about, I find the two sponsors who took an interest in Haymitch from the beginning grinning at me, pleased.

"Where have you been?" I grouse. The two portly men merely laugh at my sour mood.

"We would love to sponsor your oldest boy. He's a real fighter, that one," the first man says.

"Real quick with that knife, he is. Wonder what would happen if he had a whole belt of them..." the second man muses. "And a bottle of water; he looks a little winded after dueling those squirrels."

I gape at them. A belt of knives alone is worth as much as a Seam miner back home makes in a year. And a gift like that will only increase in expense the longer the Games continue. My District 8 friends are nudging me, whispering excitedly.

"Take the deal now!" Savera hisses. "You'd be an idiot not to!"

"You won't get an offer like this even a day or two from now!" Woof concurs.

I smile gratefully at the two men. "Thank you ever so much," I purr. "Would you be so kind as to escort me to the vending machines?"

The gentlemen lead the way, pay for the belt of knives and the water, which I send off to Haymitch posthaste. Minutes later, the parachute comes drifting down through the canopy, and Haymitch eagerly digs through his bounty. His eyes gleam upon receipt of the knives in a way that is almost sadistic.

 _Oh, right_ , I think weakly. _Haymitch is the tanner's son_. I think I now know how he got that 10 in training.

He isn't so frugal as Maysilee when dealing with the water, though, and after a gulp or two, a quarter of the bottle is gone. I hope he rations out the rest.

"Our fighter from District 12, Haymitch Abernathy, earning quite the reward for getting out of that jam with those squirrels!" Caesar is covering. "But, ooh, let's see what our little girl from 6, Canvas Easel, has gotten herself into..."

An image splices in of the youngest girl from District 6, seated back in the meadow field near the Cornucopia, when a butterfly lands on her arm. Smiling adorably, she reaches out to pet it...

Then jerks sharply as the butterfly stings her.

Howling in agony, the girl struggles to stand and flap the butterfly away. But it doesn't move. Then a second, third and fourth butterfly all land on her shoulder, neck and thigh in rapid succession. Three more pricks, and the girl is wailing in sheer torment. There is a rapid fluttering of wings as more butterflies swarm the little girl, until she can hardly be seen. BOOM. The sound of the cannon is heard and when the butterflies finally scatter, the small girl from 6 is frozen in the meadow, her body littered with red dots.

I cringe and turn my face away from the screen, ignoring how Caesar and Claudius are mildly commenting on how remarkable it is, for such tiny creatures to be so lethal.

Brutus suddenly gives a bellowing roar of delight, fists clenching as his attention has been directed to the rightmost screen. We all turn his way to look: the entire Career pack has finally encountered their first victims on the mountaintop. The oldest boy from 3 and the oldest girl from 10, in an alliance, warily but determinedly remain in fighting position as no less than double-digit adversaries surround and circle them, like a pack of ravenous wolves.

The oldest girl from 1, wielding a deadly pair of axes, is clearly the Leader of the whole crew, for it is she who gives the signal to attack. And when she does, all ten swoop in without mercy. The oldest boy from 3 and the oldest girl from 10 manage to parry only a handful of strikes before they are overwhelmed, the blades of the Careers sinking into flesh. When the lot of them finally back off, the two tributes look as though they've been mauled by a bear mutt.

BOOM. BOOM.

The Careers merely chortle at the sight, exchanging high-fives and windswept smiles, flushed with exertion.

Suddenly -

KABOOM.

The smile on the oldest girl from 1 fades just a bit. "Was that another cannon?..."

The smallest girl from 2 looks up at the sky, expression collapsing into something wary when she realizes that the sun has been completely blotted out. "I don't think that was a cannon..."

Back here in the bar, Muscida cries out:

"Oh no! The mountain!"

Except it isn't a mountain anymore. The snowcapped peaks of the landmass are gone, replaced by a billowing pillar of smoke. Streaks of red magma are slushing and sliding down the crags and sheer cliff faces at a speed that cannot be natural. When I was a teenger in Upper School, Geology was the most important subject a District 12 student could ever learn. Our textbooks were filled with images of erupting volcanos, videos were constantly played in class of magma and its properties. Natural magma flows incredibly slowly. This magma - clearly a Gamemaker invention - is descending the mountain at a rapid pace, swelling towards all of the tributes in its path!

The Career tributes yelp in fear, turning tail and running. But having already reached an incredible elevation, the mountain is treacherously steep, so that scaling down at any pace faster than a crawl is incredibly dangerous. Some of the pack resort to dropping down from cliff ledge to cliff ledge. The oldest girl from 4, after making a particularly harrowing drop, howls in pain and clutches at her leg as a SNAPPING sound is heard; it is clearly broken. The oldest girl from 2 has to grab her by the hand and pull her along.

As the magma chases them, the Career pack splinters off into pairs and threes. They soon run into other tributes but don't even bother stopping to pick them off.

Down on his windy plateau where he has spent much of the day, Terence Asher glances up at the shouts and cries of his fellow tributes. Feels the tremors as the magma rushes down towards him. Leaping to his feet, yelping in fear, he races for the pathway that had taken him up the mountain, but the magma cuts it off. Panicking as the red-hot substance closes in on him, Terence Asher has no choice. There is only one way for him to escape. With a scream, he launches himself off the edge of the cliff, taking a literal leap of faith that the drop is survivable.

Unfortunately for my tribute, it isn't.

The jagged rocks below pierce him clear through the abdomen. He dies almost instantly.

Chaos reigns on the volcano mountain. As the other mentors and I watch in horror, tribute after tribute, Career after Career is swept away in the magma, burned alive. Their death screams are hideous and gruesome.

"Panem almighty..." Sylva Mayleaf murmurs. I can't watch, and yet cannot bear to look away, beyond looking at the stat holographic screens to see that poor Terence Asher came in 17th for his final finish. If this keeps up, the Games may well end within hours, if not minutes.

And it certainly seems that way, as the screams fade to be replaced by the bubbling trickle of the magma, cannons seemed to sound endlessly. I patiently count a dozen before they halt.

The camera swivels to focus in on a pair of tributes, doubled over and panting, down in the meadow grasses just at the edge of the forest. Next to me, Indigo straightens a little in his seat, and I come to understand why: it is his last remaining tribute - Quilt, the tiny girl from 8. She's in an alliance with the oldest boy from 11. It appears that the pair of them were only in the foothills of the mountain when the volcano erupted, and were some of the few to outstrip the dangerous lava.

The boy from 11 rises up out of where he is doubled over, staggering for a nearby stream. "Gods, I'm parched. I need a drink..."

Quilt stumbles after him, waiting as the boy falls to his knees and slurps from the stream. For a moment, all is still. Then the boy begins to twitch violently, frothing at the mouth. Quilt's jaw drops in horror.

"Platt!"

But Platt merely keels over, his body flopping like a fish for a grotesque minute or two before lying still. Trembling, Quilt bends over him, gasping and hyperventilating, before trying to desperately restart his heart.

"Come on... come on, get up... Get up, please! Please, don't leave..." Her voice has turned into a soft whimper, but Platt doesn't respond. Lifting her hands from where they've been pressed into his chest, Quilt studies them and the blood that now stains her palms. Whatever she finds there must be monstrous, for her face crumples in a self-hating terror and hopeless despair. It is as though she views herself as the monster who did this to her ally, even though she had absolutely nothing to do with Platt's death.

Quilt folds into herself, head on her knees, sobbing. "I hate this... I wanna go home... I wanna go home..." Eyes bloodshoot and swollen, she lifts her head up, hopelessly glancing about...

And then something catches her eye, coming from a distance and closing in fast.

Glancing to the arena schematic, Woof turns as white as a ghost. "Shit!"

The red dot marking LIPSTICK VOGUE - the vicious, oldest girl from 1 - is closing in fast on poor Quilt.

Indigo, Savera and Woof are now fighting over one of the counter holopads, desperate to send their tribute a weapon, a message, anything. Indigo finally resorts to screaming at the flatscreens:

"PULL UP! PULL UP, QUILT! TURN! RUN AWAY!"

But Quilt doesn't even move. In fact, she smiles, entire face serene as she closes her eyes. And I know that in forty years of doing this job, I have never - not even in my own proteges - seen a tribute face their own death with such courage.

Lipstick (who, in their right mind, names their child that?) closes in for the kill, lengthening her stride as she draws her axe back and swings it wide. With a feral battle yell, Lipstick beheads Quilt with one, clean stroke. And just like that, District 8 and District 11 are out of the 50th Hunger Games.

"ERRRAHHHHHHH!"

The cannons are late in sounding.


	6. No Guns at this Knifefight

**Chapter 6: No Guns at This Knifefight**

The afternoon of the second day is a silent, lethargic, mercifully milquetoast affair for the participants of the Games and those in the Mentors' Bar. Nineteen tributes managed to get wiped out by lunchtime, twelve of them on the mountain volcano alone - really fourteen, if you count the pair of tributes the Careers stabbed to death before a freaking eruption turned the entire Quell on its head. Chaff - who is usually punchdrunk with joviality by this time in the proceedings - is instead deeply dismayed. Despondent to the point of being almost sober. "They're dropping too fast!"

"And too many of them are succumbing to the arena's natural elements," Honorius - a mentor from District 3 - muses. "Sponsors will complain."

And sponsors do complain - the objections clamoring all the stronger when word leaks that the whole volcano fiasco was the result of a novice Gamemaker _accidentally pressing the wrong button_. The volcanic mechanism had apparently been built into the mountain as a contingency, to be activated only if the bloodshed had slowed down to such an extent that the audience and sponsors were starting to get bored. I don't need a degree in Gamemaking to know that the poor sod whose fingers got too jittery will no longer be employed with the Gamemakers... or even be alive, most likely.

The problems don't end there though. Just as many complaints are being raised about the arena being spiked with poison everywhere you look - a feature that has been responsible for at least ten more deaths over the past two days. The Gamemakers hear the objections loud and clear, for no more demises occur in the afternoon and evening following the eruption. The most interesting action the screens can depict is the magma from what most of us have dubbed Mount Quell flowing down the cliff faces, into the foothills and then pooling out towards the deserted Cornucopia. With the mountain now inhospitable and the magma rapidly turning the meadow into a molten lake, the remaining eleven tributes - including Haymitch and Maysilee - have no choice but to confine themselves to the woods. Guerilla warfare, I note. Fierce fighting amidst the trees. Even if the rest of today and tonight gives us a break, a Victor may very well be crowned tomorrow, at the rate we're going.

Fortunately, the woods to the east are fairly vast, and the arena schematic tells us the roughly quarter of the field which survives are sufficiently separated by distance. One of the few good things that Mount Quell's eruption did was not only kill off half of the Career pack, but also critically separate the remaining handful who did manage to make it off the mountain. Lipstick Vogue, the vicious older girl from 1, is now alone. And so is Hildegard, the smallest girl from 2. Despite each girl's respective solitude, I would not advise either of my two tributes to engage them in hand-to-hand combat... at least not yet. Each of the oldest boys from Districts 1, 2 and 4, all survived, managing to stay together in an intimidating trio posse that now prowls through the woods, tracking whomever is left.

Indigo, Savera and Woof have been silently grieving and drinking themselves sick all afternoon over the loss of their final tribute, Quilt. I try to comfort them, telling them that Quilt made an excellent finish for one so small - 12th overall in an arena worth double the numbers. To their credit, and despite their emotional and intoxicated state, my District 8 friends also comfort me over the loss of Terence Asher. Though I mourn too, I have to confess: between death by essentially suicide, or death by searing magma, Terence Asher made the right call. I only hope that those jagged rocks below brought a quick and relatively painless death.

Night falls at last, and the faces of the nineteen new dead appear in the sky. The camera catches both Maysilee and Haymitch's heartfelt reactions to Terence Asher's loss. Both of my surviving students had heard the eruption from where they were miles away, and have been on edge ever since, wondering what had happened. Luckily, neither are tempted to traverse back the way they came, especially at night, to investigate.

The Bar is rapidly starting to empty of mentors and sponsors alike. Indigo is swaying dangerously on his barstool, a silly grin plastered across his face. "Hey, Lu-Lu," he hiccups. "Why don't you go to bed?"

I smirk dryly. " _Lu-Lu_? Never heard _that_ one before." I glance back to the flatscreens anxiously, Indigo tracking the indecision in my eyes.

"For Panem's sake, Lucy Gray, go to bed! Nothing's gonna happen... probably. I'll watch over Haymitch and Maysilee for you."

I smile at him thankfully, touched. Though Indigo hasn't said it explicitly, I have a feeling District 8 will throw their lot in with my students, now that all of theirs are dead. It's a common strategy, for districts who have been knocked out of the Games entirely, to sponsor their next favorites from whoever is still standing. Being a Quarter Quell Victor himself, I know that - even when drunk - Indigo can remain pretty alert, and would notify me should anything happen. And he's right - I've been on my feet for almost forty hours with no rest. But I don't want to walk all the way back to the penthouse suite.

So we compromise. Indigo gallantly carries me to a corner plush booth in the back, allowing me to curl up for a catnap there. As I snuggle into the leather and close my eyes, I tell myself I will only doze off for a few hours...

* * *

I end up sleeping for a full eleven hours instead, the sunlight of mid-morning and a particularly gruesome memory of a barely-alive Marcus hanging from the poles in my Games finally jolting me awake. Remembering where I am, I bolt out of the booth and rush back to the counter.

My regular stool has remained vacant next to my District 8 colleagues. Indigo's head is flopped on the bar, clearly suffering a terrific hangover. Savera is turned away from me, haggling for something with a sponsor. I can't imagine what it would be, or who it would be for - all her tributes are dead. Woof is morosely watching the screens.

"Why didn't any of you idiots come and wake me?" I demand, but my admonishment lacks any bite.

"Because nothing interesting happened," Woof gives me a shrug. "But your girl's gaining a lot of attention." He points to the middle flatscreen.

I look. The camera does seem to be enamored with my oldest girl at the moment, and more specifically, what she is doing with her blowdarts. Dipping the tip of one into a flower, Maysilee studies the poisonous substance now coating the dart's one end the way a scientist would study a beaker. Carefully, she loads the toxic dart into the blowgun, puts the hollow end to her lips and blows.

The blowgun makes a kind of THUNKING sound, and the dart bullets straight into a tree twenty yards away. A moment later we can see the effects of the poison acidicly go to work on the bark of the trunk, turning it a ghastly pallor. Maysilee smiles. She then turns back to her backpack, which from this camera angle, I can see still contains the bottled water and the beef jerky. Only a third of the water is gone, and just a single whole stick of jerky appears to have been eaten. I praise how frugal my girl is being with her rations, and just hope it will last her through the rest of the Games.

Meanwhile, Haymitch is continuing to trek through the trees at a steady due east, a path from which he has only wavered once (and at that, only slightly) to check on the dead District 5 tributes. Quirky as it is, I can't really fault him, as changing course brings the risk of encountering a mutt creation, or worse yet, a fellow tribute. What worries me more is that the lack of eating and drinking is starting to get to him - unusual for a Seam kid. It's small comfort to know that Haymitch isn't tempted by the poisonous delicacies, or that he has become much better about conserving the bottled water and apples still in his pack. If I don't get a sponsor to send him some supplements soon, Haymitch might succumb to either of two bad options - gorging whatever safe sustenance he has left in his pack, or cracking under pressure and eating one of the poisonous foodstuffs.

Speaking of sponsors... Savera's negotiations with Remus what's-his-name seem to be going south.

"Fine! Be that way!" The Remus guy storms off in a huff, and I wince as Savera turns back to me. It's never a good idea to be so short with a sponsor, and Savera smiles at me all the more apologetically.

"I'm sorry, Lucy Gray. I was trying to haggle a pair of throwing axes for Maysilee. That trick with the blowdarts is ingenious, but it might only do so much." She points at Maysilee's tribute stats cycling onto one of the holographic screens. "I checked her stats to know what to get."

I smile at her appreciatively. "Never mind, Savera. We'll figure something out."

The rest of the third day in the arena passes uneventfully. For the first time since the Quell started, there are no new deaths.

* * *

The morning of the fourth day is just as dull as all of the third. Indigo seems fairly certain that nothing new will happen until tomorrow; with all the death seen during the first two days, tributes, mentors and audience alike will all need a bit of a longer break. The Gamemakers will monitor the pulse of the viewers, and eventually draw the remaining fighters together.

I decide to use this likely downtime by hustling some sponsors for Haymitch and Maysilee. My two benefactors from earlier, who paid for Haymitch's knives belt and water, are still deeply intrigued by my oldest boy but are withholding their cash flow to test him. See if he can make the Final Eight. I only hope Mags or some of her Career colleagues won't lure them away. Seeking of new sponsors, I decide to start small and see if I can't get Haymitch another bottle of water. One quick look at the vending machines in the back dissaudes me from that notion: a bottle of water today now costs what Haymitch's entire knives belt cost just two days ago. The Gamemakers are jacking up the prices; it won't be many more kills, not much longer, before the cost of anything and everything starts to spike.

I am just wandering back across the bar when bloodthirsty cheers split the air. A wild-eyed Savera finds me in the congealing crowd and drags me back into my seat. Once I get a good look at the screens, my heart sinks. Oh no...

According to the arena schematic, Haymitch is emerging into the same clearing as the Career trio. A quick glance at their names and stats makes my blood quicken, then chill: SHANG FA, 1. CASSIUS ETTU, 2. JAYSON ARGONAUT, 4. All of them are taller than Haymitch; only Shang seems thinner.

I have to admire my boy for showing no fear. He slowly pulls a sharp knife from the assortment at his belt. All the same, I feel the tears of grief already stinging my eyes. "Holy Hell... they're going to kill him."

Indigo steals an arm around me, and I hold fast. I can't watch... and yet I must.

Shang - an Asian boy - smirks ferally and attacks first, swinging the tree branch. Haymitch ducks and slashes out with his knife, Shang leaping back. Cassius, the boy from 2, joins the fray with nothing but sheer muscle, yet Haymitch manages to kick him away. Jayson dives in with a punch, which Haymitch dodges and returns, socking the boy in the face.

The whole bar is yelling, shouting for their favorites. Brutus looks like a kid in a candy store. "Come on Cassius, skewer the runt!"

Drawing a bloodied hand away from his slashed abdomen (I am heartened that Haymitch landed a hit on him after all) Shang doubles back with the tree branch and rejoins the fight. Going for an overhead clubbing, he is caught completely by surprise when Haymitch this time slices him across the throat. Shang stumbles back into the grass, clutching at his neck, while Haymitch whirls and stabs for Cassius. The monstrous boy from 2 catches him by the knife arm, and they tussle, Haymitch soon thrown to the ground. As Cassius stalks in to kick him, Haymitch seizes his ankle and twists, bringing his adversary down with him before jabbing an elbow into his enemy's nose. Back at equal level, the two large boys begin to wrestle on the ground amidst a flurry of punches and kicks.

Scrambling to his feet, Haymitch makes for the tree branch that Shang had dropped and just gets his hands on it when Jayson appears. The boys grapple for control of it, Jayson backing Haymitch into a tree trunk before they both tumble to the ground. Back to some more wrestling, the camera sweeping over to Shang, who is now drowning in his own blood. The District 1 boy's legs are twitching violently. Neither Jayson nor Haymitch appear to notice, their wrestling taking them on a rolling ride literally over Shang's body.

Managing to pin Jayson under him, Haymitch sees the one hand reaching up to claw at his face. When it gets close enough, he opens his mouth and bites down - hard.

"ERRRRRR... ERRRRRRRR!" Jayson growls in pain, blood spurting through Haymitch's teeth and flowing down the Career's fingers. I can almost taste the rusty tang of the blood from here.

Shang finally expires and a cannon sounds.

Haymitch now lunges for his dropped knife a short distance away, just getting his fingers around it before Jayson is hauling him back by the leg. They roll again, Haymitch ending up underneath Jayson as the latter straddles him.

Cool, deadly and methodical, Jayson starts to bring Haymitch's own blade down on his neck. But my tribute is strong, straining and growling with the exertion to keep it at bay. The blade's tip reaches as close as Haymitch's neck, but not close enough for Jayson to slice his throat like an onion.

I am shuddering violently... a few more centimeters...

Suddenly, Haymitch is able to twist his neck away, shifting Jayson off-balance. Quick as lightning, my tribute flips them both, wrests back control of the knife and draws a blood-red smile across Jayson's throat.

"NO!" I hear Mags scream next to me.

BOOM. Haymitch is on his feet and running when -

CRACK.

I had completely forgotten about Cassius, who now charges Haymitch with Shang's discarded tree branch, clocking him in the face. Haymitch's head jerks back as he falls to his knees, and I fear his nose is broken.

Grinning triumphantly, Cassius grabs Haymitch by the hair, manipulating him into an execution position and bringing my boy's own knife to his throat.

I can't watch it happen. I squeeze my eyes shut and turn into Indigo when...

No cannon comes.

"Lu!" Woof cries, and I dare to take a peek.

Cassius is lifting his free hand from the back of his skull, expression dazed. Between his fingers is... a dart...

Spitting up blood, Cassius' eyes roll into the back of his head and he falls. A stunned Haymitch crab-walks away, staring as the third cannon fires.

I gasp. "YES!" I scream in relief.

No one had noticed the arena schematic show Maysilee Donner rapidly approaching the clearing, evidently hearing the sounds of the fight. My eldest girl now steps from the trees. She has seemed to age these past handful of days in the arena. Though her face is still thin and pretty, age lines have set themselves into her skin, and her expression is grim.

"We'd live longer with two of us," she points out.

"Guess you just proved that," Haymitch rubs at the back of his neck almost sheepishly. "Allies?" She merely nods.

"Allies? At this stage? They must be mad!" Savera clucks her tongue.

Woof ignores her, his eyes gleaming. "OK, so can we all agree we're Team Haymitch and Maysilee now?"

I bark out a laugh, but it quickly turns into a relieved sob. Indigo frantically waves down the man serving the drinks. "Bartender - hard lemonade, on the rocks, STAT!" He begins rocking me gently. "They're all right... they're all right..." I smile weakly, tuning out Woof getting into a heated argument with Mags.

"I won't back him! He killed my best chance! Absolutely not!"

"Mags..." Woof growls warningly. "Where's your sportsmanship?"

"Fuck sportsmanship!..."

It is more than a little satisfying to notice that the Career mentors are starting to low-key panic. Five of their kids were killed in a freak volcanic eruption, while another five have been brought down by District 12 tributes, of all people! If they want to win, they will either have to push all their chips in for Lipstick Vogue or Hildegard, the small girl from 2.

The screens are now showing Haymitch and Maysilee walking amicably through the trees. Suddenly, Maysilee grabs her new ally's arm.

"Mitchy! You know what this means?" she squeals. "We're in the Final Eight!"

"We are?!" Haymitch grins broadly. "That's impossible..."

"No, I've been keeping count! When was the last time District 12 had multiple tributes in the Final Eight?"

I know exactly when it was - over thirty years ago. In fact, it was the year Woof won. Turning to my friend, I can see him nodding, remembering. His eyes look pained. Though he might be sympathetic to my tributes, the Victor from Eight is still convinced that Lipstick from One is going to win the whole damn thing.

Even if she does, I sure hope she doesn't have to kill my kids to do it.


	7. The Finale

**Chapter 7: The Finale**

Lipstick Vogue. Hildegard. The smallest boy from 6 (the one who scored an 8 in training). Both of the oldest kids from 7. The oldest boy from 10. And Haymitch and Maysilee. Those are the Final Eight tributes as dusk falls over a furious fourth day in the arena.

My serious case of the shakes has only just started to abate, and I sip from my hard lemonade slowly. If Maysilee hadn't shown up when she had...

Most of the mentors (except for those coaching the Careers) have come up to congratulate me on my feat - multiple tributes in the Final Eight! And during a Quell! Only District 7 can say the same at this point. Districts 1, 2, 6 and 10 are on pins and needles with only a single dog left in this fight. The rest are out of the Games entirely.

"Who knew a Quell would get your district to show some balls?" Honorius, a mentor from 3, marvels to me. It's a backhanded compliment, but I take it.

Mags hasn't uttered one word to me since the blade slashed across Jayson's throat. I understand how she feels - I've been in her position far too often before, though rarely this late in the Games, so perhaps that's what makes it sting all the worse for her. Woof has been trying to get us ladies to kiss and make up all afternoon, to no avail. Muscida and Librae haven't even so much as looked at me since Terence Asher accidentally killed Aft, but I've never been close to Mags' apprentices anyway. I do hope, however, that my dear friend and I can reach some sort of truce, perhaps once the Quell is over and a Victor is crowned.

The solidifying of the Final Eight has finally caused the spike in prices that we have all been bracing ourselves for. The betting, the gambling has crescendoed to a dull roar. Even if I wanted to negotiate for a sponsor gift, I would have to pay an arm and a leg for it. I will have to come up with something soon, though - from what I have been able to discern, Haymitch has already completely eaten one of his apples, and nearly polished off a second. He has somewhere between only one-third and half of his water left. I don't know how much water remains for Maysilee, but I have no doubt my kids will pool what they have. It is still food I am most concerned about for them, as I don't even know what remains of Maysilee's beef jerkey. After all, food is fuel... and from how the Gamemakers unnaturally drop the temperature on the fourth night (Haymitch actually gives up his jacket, while keeping watch, to Maysilee when he notices her shivering), I know that nutrition would help keep the pair warm, among other things.

Thankfully, fate intervenes once again to aid my tributes.

Just around dawn on the fifth day, Haymitch and Maysilee are breaking their meager camp when they hear voices and the clang of weapons coming from about three hundred paces to the east. Creeping quietly through the trees, they observe from the foliage as Hildegard, the small Career girl from 2, brazenly attacks both remaining District 7 tributes - the pair are armed with throwing axes - in a wild battle. The District 7 kids give as good as they get, the boy managing to hack off Hildegard's sword arm after she butchers his district partner. Howling in pain and anger, Hildegard manages to kick her sword back up into her other hand and dice the District 7 boy up like a turkey. It's a near thing, though, and when he finally dies with a shout and the cannon sounds, the Career is doubled over and winded.

Haymitch and Maysilee look at each other. At his nod, Maysilee surreptiously dips a dart into the poison (I'm not sure how many she has left), loads it in the blowgun and fires at the back of Hildegard's skull.

The THUNKING sound gives the small Career only just enough warning to wheel around, but not enough for her to dodge, so that the dart hits her right between the eyes. As her gaze bulges and the poison starts to seep in, Haymitch sends his knife sailing into her stomach to finish her off. A mercy killing if there ever was one. Besides, how much longer could Hildegard have lasted with only one arm? If a mutt or poison didn't take her first, blood loss from her gushing stump surely would have.

There are three packs left abandoned by the three dead tributes, and Haymitch and Maysilee swarm it. The parachutes had to have been sent no more than a day ago, for there is still plenty for them to pillage - bread and cheese in one. A crossbow and awl in another. The third is weighed down by a blowtorch. My tributes manage to consolidate all of the weaponry into one pack, and the food in the one across Haymitch's shoulders. They pause briefly to nibble on some of the cheese.

"So," Maysilee starts by way of conversation. "Word on the streets back home is that you've been shagging Rosemary Fairchild."

Haymitch pauses in his feasting, studying the scrap of cheese between his fingers. "Yeah. So?"

Maysilee cocks her head and ponders him. "Are you good to her?"

Haymitch peers at her right back, then gives an awkward laugh. "I keep her satisfied."

"That's not what I asked." Maysilee's voice is still calm, light, but I can see her absently twirling the blowgun between her fingers, passing it from hand to hand. I have no idea how she could get the drop on Haymitch, unless she merely went to beat him with it, as she did Nero Sniper. "Are you good to her?"

Haymitch has clearly noticed her innocent playing with her weapon too. Though his face remains placid, he nods. "I am."

Maysilee smiles broadly. "Good answer. My cousin wouldn't shack up with just anybody."

Haymitch blinks, a pleadantly surprised smile coming over his face. "She is?"

Maysilee just laughs heartily.

* * *

My tributes continue on for the rest of that morning and well into the afternoon. With only three other competitors left in the arena, no one disturbs them.

I've never had multiple tributes reach the Fab Five before. Ever. It leaves me both terrified and exhilarated, and immensely, immensely proud.

From polling of the audience and the almost continuous coverage perpetuated by Caesar and Claudius, it is clear that the alliance of Haymitch Abernathy and Maysilee Donner has become a crowd favorite. In fact, my two tributes seem to be the driving factor keeping this entire Quell's favorability ratings above water. The volcano fiasco has been declared deeply unpopular, and the audience demonstrates a clear preference for tributes directly killing each other off, and not dying due to the dangers of the arena itself. Thankfully, Haymitch's battle with the Careers, and Hildegard's showdown with District 7, has left them finally feeling satisfied.

Even though their piracy of District 7 and Hildegard's packs has left my kids not wanting for food, I have had plenty of sponsors come to me, insisting they send something to the pair. The Career mentors have all had to band together, including Mags and her girls, just to get a word in edegwise on behalf of Lipstick Vogue. They are going all in - if they don't back Lipstick, they lose. But I can't help but notice that some of the Career mentors, even Lipstick's direct coaches from District 1, are doing this halfheartedly. As if these Victors are _afraid_ of her, and her viciousness. And there are takers, disconcertingly. The boys from Districts 6 and 10 are pretty much on their own, with only the hope that they can outlast Lipstick, Haymitch and Maysilee.

In this tiny alliance - the only one left in the arena - Haymitch has declared himself Leader. And there is no question about it now; my cocksure boy is definitely doggedly pursuing the same direction. He pointedly ignores all of Maysilee's questions as to where they are going.

At least until his knife suddenly appears from nowhere, so suddenly that he nearly walks right into it.

Glancing to her, Maysilee just smirks. "I'm not going any further without an answer."

Haymitch warily glances down at the second knife pressed against his windpipe in as many days. For the first time since the Reaping, he actually looks _fearful_. At last, he sighs. "Because it has to end somewhere, right? The arena can't go on forever."

A beat, and then Maysilee lowers the knife, handing it back to Haymitch from where she had pickpocketed it. He struggles on.

"What do you expect to find?"

"I don't know," he flippantly shrugs. "Maybe something we can use." She seems to accept this answer.

But I don't accept this answer. In fact, I am downright beside myself. I am glued to the screen, expecting for some Gamemaker weapon - a freak lightning strike, perhaps - to appear and smite Haymitch down at any moment. All at once, I am taken back to an exchange during our interview prep, to something Haymitch had asked:

_"Where does the arena end?"_

_I frown. "I'm afraid I don't understand."_

_"Sure, you do. Every arena is an enclosed space, right? That means it's finite - it can't just go on forever."_

I want to scream and rip the flatscreens out of the wall. Then reach through the flatscreens, drag Haymitch back here and throttle him. I told him not to cause trouble! I told him not to ask those kinds of questions!

Except for Caesar, Claudius and much of the Capitol audience, the question Haymitch has posed intrigues them. Splicing back to the hosts, Caesar is murmuring, quite seriously: "Young Mr. Abernathy has raised a deep, philosophical point here..."

I bark out a laugh of disbelief. "They don't actually know." I spin back to Indigo. "They don't actually know if the arena ends, or how." My gaze narrows concernedly when I see Indigo frowning, in deep thought.

"... Does it? Should it?"

I laugh at him, incredulous. "I don't believe this. My arena had literal _walls_! Edges that you could actually see!"

"That was a different time, though!" Indigo tries to argue. "The Games were still fairly new back then. Technology has now advanced enough..."

"Everybody QUIET!" Savera holds court at the counter. "Look!"

There is suddenly a crunch of bodies up against the bar, wild cheers splitting the air and I turn back to the flatscreens, face white. But no, Haymitch and Maysilee are still hiking through the trees. The real action is occuring several miles away, where Lipstick Vogue has finally found the smallest boy from 6. The one who got that 8 in training. He is unusually tall for his age, and is wielding a meat cleaver, staring down the last living Career with pure, unvarnished courage.

"Evening, beautiful. How have you been?"

Lipstick's... well, lip curls into a sneer at her enemy's flirting. "Just fine enough, Six. You enjoyed the arena?"

Six shrugs. "Reaching the Fab Five has been a hell of a ride. And I intend to go all the way." Dropping into a fighting stance, he lets out a savage yell and attacks.

I have to once again praise Justin Hix and Meagan Hayes' good fortune for being handed a tribute who doesn't run away and hide like a coward. Cleaver evenly matches both of Lipstick's throwing axes, the CLANG of metal splitting the air. The Careers are hopping up and down like rabid fans at a tailgate rally.

"Do him, 'Stick!"

"Waste him!"

Six ducks a vicious swing from one of the axes, gets in close and sinks his cleaver straight into Lipstick's stomach. The Caeers suddenly go deathly quiet. Smirking in triumph, putting on a show, Six pulls Lipstick even closer and kisses her right on the mouth.

"Mmmmhmmmm!" Lipstick lets out an indignant squeal into Six's slanting mouth. Six merely sinks into the kiss, closing his eyes...

And that's where he makes his mistake.

Her one hand behind her back, Lipstick swings her axe around...

... and decapitates the man kissing her.

Six's body falls one way, but his head stays glued to the Career's face. Dropping both her axes, only now does Lipstick cradle the boy's face in her hands and return the kiss. Drawing the skull away from her with a small POP!, she smiles wickedly. "You were saying, dear?"

The Careers are going wild, shrieking in relief at having victory snatched from the jaws of defeat. Only Brutus is in no mood to dilly-dally, accosting a nearby sponsor and pointing at the last Career tribute, who still has a meat cleaver in her abdomen.

"We've gotta get some medicine to her, quick!"

It is dizzying, how all the Career mentors, once again including Mags, pool funds together to send Lipstick some ointment, a needle and thread. The parachute lands just as she is finishing tugging the cleaver out of herself inch by gradual inch. The wound heals critically enough once Lipstick slaps the paste on her belly. Then we all have to watch as she stitches up whatever gape in the wound remains.

I am now shaking in terror. Unless the oldest District 10 boy decides to show up and bring down Lipstick while she's still relatively weak (and that's not happening - the arena schematic shows him clear near the edge of the forest, by the meadow), it will take both Haymitch and Maysilee combined to kill her.

And that _still_ might not be enough.

* * *

The sixth day in the arena brings ominous storm clouds. Haymitch and Maysilee quickly figure out that, like the water in their bottles, the water that now falls from the heavens is also safe to drink. They greedily gulp rainwater from unnaturally large leaves. Gather it in the empty bowl Maysilee found in her pack at the start of the Games.

As the storm passes, giving way to a sunny and clear day, the trees begin to thin. Encouraged, Haymitch presses on, Maysilee having to perform a light jog to keep up with him. At last, they reach a hedegrove much like the one Terence Asher encountered on the first day, and can seemingly go no further.

That doesn't stop my stubborn boy, though, as he beckons for the pack holding all the weapons. "Can you pass me that blowtorch thingy?"

Just then, Caesar has to splice away to nearly the other end of the forest, gleefully reporting that the oldest District 10 boy has now encountered the carnivourous golden squirrels which Haymitch barely managed to fend off days ago. The little beasts come for the strong, dark-skinned boy in a relentless wave - just as one is stabbed, another takes its place. The oldest District 10 boy begins to flail and panic, as the squirrels force him down to the mossy earth. After several, agonizing minutes, the cannon sounds, and the squirrels scamper away, leaving nothing but a skeleton picked clean of all flesh.

The Top Three. Maysilee and Haymitch have survived all the way to the Top Three. If they can outlast Lipstick... I will have a Victor. District 12 would have its first Victor in forty years.

Caesar seems quite delighted by the way the finale has shaped up. "A single Career against District 12 - the most underdog district in all of Hunger Games history. Let's check back with our favorite alliance, shall we...?"

The feed splices back to my kids to reveal...

A grassy plateau. Tapping off into a stony cliff, which Haymitch and Maysilee are now peering over the edge of. There is no clear way down to the rocks below, outside of a probably 100-foot drop, maybe more. The camera monkey-cams dangerously, undecided whether it should keep rolling or cut away. Whatever Haymitch and Maysilee have found clearly wasn't meant to be.

The edge of the arena. They actually reached it.

Lifting her head, Maysilee glances to her ally. "That's all there is, Haymitch. Let's go back."

My impossible oldest boy doesn't even turn his head. "No. I'm staying here."

An awkward pause, as Maysilee purses her lips in a tight frown. "All right. There's only us and the big girl from 1. Might as well split up here. I don't want it to come down to you and me."

I am not entirely sure whether or not I agree with Maysilee's assessment. A District 12-full Top Two would ensure us a win I have yearned for badly for... forever. And district partners battling for the crown in the final battle is really, really rare. It would be quite the ending to this Quell.

Indigo, for his part, makes a chef's kiss with his fingers, nodding in approval. "Perfect time to break it off!"

Woof, who has sworn since the chariot rides that Lipstick will win it all, isn't so sure. "They'll need one another if they want half a chance against the Career..."

But Maysilee's mind is made up. Haymitch's, too, for he barely manages to mumble an "All right" in her direction. His ally walks away, going along the edge of the cliffs, before turning the corner and out of sight.

Haymitch finally turns away...

... and there is a clattering sound as his shoe kicks an errant pebble over the side. This is then followed by a kind of sizzle.

And the same pebble bounces back up into its former place.

If Haymitch hadn't been staring at the ground as he made that lazy kick, he would have missed it. Woof is now frowning hard while watching my boy, leery.

"Whoa, whoa, what the hell was that?"

"Caesar! Rewind! Instant replay!" Indigo demands, slapping the counter. No response.

"All y'all, shut up!" I snap. My very eyes seem breathless. "He's thinking..."

Contemplative, Haymitch picks up the pebble, looks at it, then cranes his neck over the cliff. Discarding the tiny stone, he instead picks up a boulder the size of his fist and lobs it over the side. Yet another faint sizzle, before the boulder magically reappears...

... sailing right into Haymitch's waiting fist. My tribute begins to wildly laugh.

Savera is gobsmacked. "What the devil is down there?!"

I have never been more stricken in all my life. "A force field," I whisper. Now the Gamemakers will definitely take Haymitch out, leaving Lipstick and Maysilee to vie for the Crown.

But before they can do that, before I can tell the others, though, there is a feminine scream. I sway dangerously on my barstool, wanting to hurl. _Please, please, let that be Lipstick..._

To his credit, Haymitch takes off running in the direction of the sound, around the corner and to a small grassy knoll. I clap a hand over my mouth to tamp down the sob bubbling up in me.

"Noooo..." I moan.

A flock of pink birds, their beaks as sharp as blades, are startled away by another tribute's approach, leaving poor Maysilee clutching at her neck as Haymitch dives to her side, clasping her hand.

Smiling weakly, my girl uses the last of her strength to hoist her head up and peck Haymitch on the cheek.

"Happy..." she chokes on blood. "Make Rosemary... happy..."

"I will," Haymitch's reply bobbles as it leaves him.

Grin becoming peaceful, serence, Maysilee sags back into the earth, her grip on Haymitch going slack. She's dead.

BOOM.

Even though I have already lost two prior tributes, I was never as overcome over Ahsoka and Terence Asher's respective demises as I am now, weeping into Indigo's shirtfront. Through wet lashes, I can see Mags regarding me with pity.

It is down to Lipstick and Haymitch. District 1 versus District 12. Career versus loser district with only a single Victor vying for a date with history.

* * *

Haymitch disappears just inside the treeline, so as to allow the hovercraft ample room to collect Maysilee's body. My last tribute still has all the backpacks, containing an assortment of weapons and still a decent haul of food. He now gorges on bread and cheese, wolfs down the last apple and the beef, guzzles every single drop of water from the bottles. He's fattening himself up, like he did on the train, and I can hardly blame him.

One way or another, he won't be in such dire need of sustenance for much longer. And he'll need all the strength he can get.

In the middle of the afternoon, a pack of mutt wolves assault Lipstick, driving her further and further to the edge of the forest. The Gamemakers are forcing her and Haymitch together, wanting to end this. The mutts get several chunks of flesh from the vicious blond girl, and when she finally bursts out of the treeline and onto the grassy knoll where Maysilee was felled, she is out of breath.

When she sees Haymitch, staring her down, Lipstick draws up, jaw setting. The camera gets a good close-up of my tribute. A bit of crusted, dried blood has congealed across his nose, which I have come to conclude wasn't broken in the attack by Cassius, but rather merely caused a deviated septum.

"I had a feeling it would be you, Twelve. That, or your blonde friend." She twirls an axe around her fingers. "Shame I have to kill you. You're a fine specimen."

Haymitch just chuckles. "I have a girlfriend, thank you very much. I can't wait to see her again."

Lipstick just jeers. "You'll be waiting a while." And with that, she attacks.

This final battle is fierce, bloody and awful. But with that scrappiness that has gotten him this far, Haymitch gives as good as he gets. And the wound in Lipstick's stomach has slowed her just enough.

The Careers are bellowing for Lipstick to make the kill, Mags joining in, though there appears to be a bit of uncertainty in her eyes, as she keeps looking over at me.

Haymitch and Lipstick keep ducking swings with their knives and axes, the Career swiping at my boy again so that he has to roll away. She leaps back from another swipe of his knife, and then kicks him hard in the chest. It's at this moment that Caesar gleefully decides to drag the feed into slow motion, so that the movements and facial expressions of the two tributes look almost comical.

Haymitch headbutts Lipstick so that blood spurts from her nose, and as she staggers back, his knife goes for her head.

He manages to take out her left eye, the knife's tip pulling the ball right out of its socket.

I tremble against Indigo, and my friend winces. "Uggh!"

In a rage, Lipstick retaliates, Haymitch sidestepping and grazing his blade along her arm. He doesn't let up as the inertia of her attack carries her past him, my boy punching her full in the face.

Lipstick attacks yet again, Haymitch throwing his arm up to block...

... and she sends the axe right into his stomach. Before then literally rolling over him, vaulting over his back.

The Careers are practically delirious now, Brutus roaring in approval, eyes wild and deranged.

"FINISH HIM!"

Haymitch makes for his cliff. With Caesar still keeping the footage in slow-mo, the boy's mad dash for the cliff he's spent the entire Games looking for seems to go as slow as it feels. Lipstick appears to take her time stalking after him, her last throwing axe at the ready. I see a bit of green - his intestines, slip from Haymitch's stomach, and I nearly wretch.

Turning back to Lipstick, Haymitch collapses to his knees. The Careers chortle with mad glee.

"He's done now!"

"Finish him off, ya little bitch!"

Lipstick flushes with triumph. Growling, she hurls the axe right at Haymitch's skull. "ERRAHHHH!"

Haymitch moves his head just a tick to the left, so that the axe sails right past his head, over his shoulder and then the cliff beyond.

My tribute is starting to convulse, barely able to hold himself up. Lipstick simply waits, knowing she can outlast him.

"Death is coming for him! He's going!" Brutus smirks smugly at me. In a daze, I shake my head.

"No..." I croak. "It ain't over till the last cannon..."

As we watch, Haymitch pitches forward, just as the axe sails back over his collapsing body and toward his final enemy, the weapon manipulated to turn on its master. In that penultimate second, Lipstick's one good eye widens in horrified understanding.

"No, wai -!"

THUNK.

BOOM.

"Sounds," I finish.

The Bar erupts into bedlam. Indigo is manhandling me, Woof is yelling ("He did it! He FUCKING DID IT! He used the arena as a weapon!"). Brutus is so stunned, his tongue is hanging all the way out of his mouth, eyes blinking stupidly like a conservative viewer who's watched too much trashy daytime TV.

And Claudius Templesmith's voice comes over the speakers, as a hovercraft materializes to save Haymitch's languishing body. "Ladies and gentleman, may I present the winner of the 50th Annual Hunger Games: Haymitch Abernathy! I give you... the fighter from District 12!"

And just like that, I am no longer the only Victor from District 12.


	8. Finish Him

**Chapter 8: Finish Him**

**Haymitch's POV**

A bright white light is piercing into the blackness of my vision. As I open my eyes, I can see sterilized, white walls all around me. The sheets covering my body are white. Turning my head, I can see a white, hydraulic door straight ahead of me. It must not be soundproof, for just from the other side, I can hear voices:

"Let me talk to him..."

"No, Indigo! I have to see him first!" That's Lucy Gray. "He's the first Victor I've ever had... and damn it, I have no idea what to do with him!"

"He's also a Quell Victor - you should be proud of yourself! But he needs help from someone who's been there."

An older man's voice joins the chorus. "I know you mean well, Indigo, but the two situations aren't at all comparable. The only thing different about your Quell was the Reaping, and maybe some enhanced arena twists. But yours had a normal field. Haymitch came out alive against double the odds - _no one_ will ever be able to relate to that..."

An attractive nurse suddenly crosses into my line of vision, smiling prettily at me. "Welcome back, Mr. Abernathy."

I study her bemusedly, finally deciding on my tell-tale smirk. "It's good to be back." I cringe at the raspiness I hear in my own voice. "Hey, can I have a...?"

The nurse bursts out laughing wildly in the middle of my question. "Oh, Mr. Abernathy, you're such a card!"

I frown. "...glass of water?"

The hydraulic door opens just then, and in strides my mentor. The nurse nods to her as she exits in the other direction. "Miss Baird, congratulations."

"Thank you," Lucy Gray quips. She pulls up a chair next to my bedside.

There is a long moment of silence once we are alone. Finally, Lucy Gray speaks:

"You know why they're laughing at you, right?" She doesn't wait for me to answer. "It's strategic. To turn you into a joke. Because you made them look like a joke. In a way, you cheated. They don't like that."

Haymitch wrinkles his nose. "Well, then maybe they shouldn't have their infastructure designed so it could be a weapon..."

"Damn it all, Haymitch!" Lucy Gray slaps the railing of my bedside. "This is _serious_! Not just for you... they don't take these things lightly..."

* * *

I am released from the hospital the next morning. That evening, I have my final interview with Caesar Flickerman (who also seems to think that every single one of my answers - even the serious ones - are downright hilarious) and the Victor's Crown is placed on my head. I am also a given a gold meal - it is tradition for the final three finishers of the Games to receive gold, silver and bronze medals for their achievement. Lucy Gray has her own gold medal from her win decades before, tucked in a drawer in her mansion. Maysilee is also posthumously presented with a bronze medal, which is given to me. Upon return to District 12, I intend to privately give it the Donners. I just hope that meeting goes well.

At the Capitol station, Lucy Gray hugs goodbye one of the District 4 mentors, a woman who is about her own age. I didn't know that the mentors could actually be friends after having their students competing against each other. Lucy Gray and the District 4 woman (who is introduced to me as Mags) talk in low voices and there actually seem to be mutual tears in their eyes.

The District 8 mentors hitch a ride on the same locomotive back with us. On the way, Lucy Gray introduces me to the man who won the First Quarter Quell. "Haymitch Abernathy, meet Indigo Weaver."

"Wow! You're a Quell Victor too? Pleased to meet you!"

The train makes a refueling pit stop in District 8, allowing Indigo and his friends, Savera and Woof, to disembark. My predecessor hugs and pecks Lucy Gray goodbye on the cheek.

"Bye. See you on the Victory Tour."

Finally, we are steaming for home. With every mile, the smile on my face broadens and broadens. In a matter of minutes, hours, I will get to see Mom, Gregory...

And Rosemary.

We can hear the clamor and roar of a crowd awaiting us at the District 12 station before we have even rounded the final bend. As soon as the glass, hydraulic doors open, hands seize me and pull me into the crowd. The entire Seam itself seems to carry me away on its shoulders, leaving Lucy Gray in the lurch.

I am at last set down in front of my loved ones. The first one within my reach is the most beautiful girl in the world. Blond hair. Blue eyes. The smoothest face imaginable. And a bright, sparkling smile. "Hiya, handsome. Welcome home."

I grin so wide, it nearly breaks my face. "Rosemary..."

Rosemary drifts into my arms and pulls me into a deep kiss, to cheers. I melt into it, furiously kissing her back, even though Rose and I have never been so public. My girlfriend must sense my nervousness, for she chuckles into my mouth. "Let them look." At last, we break apart, Rosemary's eyes shining.

"I'd drag you into an alley and have my way with the newest Victor, but someone's been waiting to see you."

The massive, yet impossibly warm and soft, presence of my brother now darts up to me, leaning into Rosemary and making content squeaking noises. Rosemary just beams. "Yeah, it's OK, go talk to him!"

And then Gregory is grabbing my hand and tucking me into his side, still making the content babbling sounds.

"Brovey come home!"

I chuckle. "That's right, buddy, I did come home!"

"Snuggle..." he chirps.

"OK, we'll snuggle. But there's something I need to do first..." Extraditing myself from Gregory, I drift over to a crowd of Merchants, who are all giving me dirty looks. I feel Rosemary's concerned presence at my back, and as we approach the grieving Donners, I notice Mr. Donner presenting something to Belle Foley.

Belle Foley, the apothecary's daughter, turns back to Rosemary and I, a caged canary in her arms. "Hi, Belle," I say quietly. "I... I just wanted you to know that I'm sorry Maysilee didn't make it. I know you and she were close friends."

Belle gives me a watery smile. "It's OK, Haymitch. District 12 badly needed a Victor." She hurries away.

The Donners are not so forgiving. When I present them with Maysilee's bronze medal and explain its significance, Mr. Donner stonily takes it from my grasp, glowering at me.

"You should not have come back, _boy_."

I don't give him the satisfaction of hanging my head, despite the guilt I feel. "I know," is all I reply.

My family and I appear at my side, and we begin that long, first trek up the hill to Victor's Village.

* * *

Within a single week, Mom, Gregory and Rosemary have all moved their stuff into my new mansion in Victor's Village. Lucy Gray is a frequent visitor from across the street, and nightly dinners are soon quite common.

It is about two weeks after my Victory, the five of us gathered around the dinner table, when the door suddenly crashes in from the foyer. An entire squad of Peacekeepers swarm in, surrounding my loved ones and grabbing them.

My jaw drops. "Whoa, whoa, what the hell is this...?"

"This way!" a Captain barks, manhandling Rosemary. My girlfriend is wary with fear.

"Mitchy, what's happening?..."

"It's gonna be OK, sweetheart," I say, even though I have no clue what is going on.

Rosemary and Mom are forced outside and into the center of the village. The Peacekeepers are having the hardest time with my little brother, who is rapidly becoming upset that we cannot resume our dinner. Even though he has struggles learning, I know that when my brother wants something, his verbal abilities are as strong as those of any normal person.

"Go back in the house! Go back in the house!" he squawks.

One of the Peacekeepers trying to restrain him seems to think this is funny, smirking broadly. "No," he taunts Gregory. "You're coming with us, boy."

The fact that the Peacekeepers will not instantly turn them right around and take them back into the mansion gradually begins to further unravel Gregory's already fraying nerves. He now tries to physically run away from the Peacekeeper holding him. "Go back in the house!"

The Peacekeeper growls as he tries holding him down. Wrong idea. Gregory finally snaps. Letting out a high-pitched squeal of anger that clearly is his way of saying _Leave me ALONE!_ , my brother actually throws the Peacekeeper off of him, the white-plated officer sailing across the street and into the wall of my mansion, sliding all the way down. His head lolls to the side, a pool of red staining the space behind his skull. I can't help but grin wide in smug approval. Were Gregory not a prisoner of his own mind, he could have become a Victor of the Games in his own right, like his brother before him.

It takes four whole other Peacekeepers to pin Gregory down, and I attempt to run to him. "Hey, leave him alone! He didn't do anything wrong -!"

BANG. Snapping my head to the right, I watch in horror as my mother is shot clean through the head.

"MOM!"

BANG.

"ROSEMARY!"

As two Peacekeepers hold Lucy Gray and I back, I struggle viciously, hot and angry tears streaming down my cheeks. "NO! LEAVE HIM ALONE! LEAVE HIM ALONE! HE DIDN'T DO ANYTHING WRONG!"

Eyeing the gun pointing at him, Gregory whimpers. "Brovey..."

BANG.

My brother crumples to the floor.

My vision swims red. "AHHHHH!" Breaking free of my captor, I rush the Peacekeeper who shot my precious little brother, tackle him, and begin to wail on his face. There is a CRACK and blood spatters up into my face, but I don't stop. The Peacekeeper's face rapidly becomes bloody and bruised. I seize a fistful of his hair with my free hand and began to slam it into the ground. He goes limp in my hold. As a final touch, I slash him across the middle with my knife, until I feel something ram into the back of my head and stars dot my sightline.

"Get up!" White-plated officers haul me to my feet and fling me back towards Lucy Gray. Other soldiers are inspecting the dead body of their comrade against my house. I don't know if the Peacekeeper I attacked is dead, though he looks close to it.

"You got what you came here for," my mentor glowers. "Take the bodies and get out!"

The three corpses of my loved ones are hauled away, followed by the officer my brother accidentally killed. The other Peacekeeper is lifted into a casket's hoist and raced to the med ward. It won't be until the next day that I hear he too dies from his wounds.

I take my first drink of alcohol that night.

* * *

Six months later is the Victory Tour. Being from District 12, we have the advantage of only having to criss-cross the country once, visiting each of the other districts in perfect reverse order before holding a big party in the Capitol.

Drunk and wasted as I am, I don't remember most of the places we visit. District 8 is my favorite of the whole trip, as Lucy Gray and I are generously put up in their Victors' Village. I spend the night with Indigo, my Quarter Quell predecessor, whom I enjoy very much.

District 1 is the final stop - home of Lipstick Vogue, my final opponent, and the oldest District 1 boy, both of whom I killed. Having defeat snatched from the jaws of a Quarter Quell Victory, the sight of me in One practically causes a riot. "The Victor of the 50th Hunger Games, or Second Quarter Quell: Haymitch Abernathy!" People boo and jeer.

"Cheater!"

"Illegitimate!"

"Trickster!"

A rotten tomato actually connects with the side of my face, accompanied by a sarcastic shout. "Hail to the Victor!"

The District 1 mentors don't even look embarrassed by their neighbors' behavior. Several people desperately attempt to bullrush the stage, prompting the Peacekeepers to hustle Lucy Gray and I away and into an armored car, back for the train station.

In the Capitol, my first order of business is to attend a doctor's appointment scheduled by Lucy Gray, to check on the healing progress on my stomach wound from Lipstick Vogue's axe. Dr. Volumnia Gaul is a kindly-faced woman in her sixties. We meet in her private office, where she takes an X-ray sonogram of my wound.

"Well, Mr. Abernathy, it appears that your injury is healing nicely," Gaul states. Approaching the wheeled-in TV screen, she pops a disc out of the player. "You can take this with you to observe, and we'll compare it at your next appointment, during the Games this summer." Gaul crosses to a safe, and opens it, placing some medical papers inside.

Just then, an intercom buzzes. "Dr. Gaul to Block D! Dr. Gaul to Block D!"

"Oh, excuse me, Mr. Abernathy!" Dr. Gaul hurriedly leaves. Left alone, I get up off the medical cot and observe the room. I am just crossing to the wheeled TV to remove my X-Ray DVD, when something catches my eye in Gaul's open safe.

Another disc lies in the safe, inside a case. And on the glass-case, written in black marker are the words 10th HUNGER GAMES.

My pulse starts to quicken. What is a copy of Lucy Gray's Games doing in Gaul's private safe?...

There is a creak from the hallway outside. I don't even really make the conscious decision. Quickly, I remove the glass-cased DVD from the safe, remove the disc from inside the glass case and swap it with the disc of my X-Ray sonogram. The case itself still has the words 10th HUNGER GAMES on it, and I replace the DVD case back in the safe. The disc of Lucy Gray's Games, I tuck into my sweatshirt.

I retake a seat on the medical cot. Moments later, Dr. Gaul returns, smiling.

"You're free to go, Mr. Abernathy. A car will take you across town to the Presidential Mansion. Your mentor will meet you there."

I nod and hurry out of the doctor's office. I am escorted into the stretch limo and hurried across town to President Snow's mansion. Admitted inside, I peruse the immaculate hallways as I am directed to what is known as the Oval Office. An elite squad of Peacekeepers (I hear they are called Secret Service agents) in tuxedos and with really dope earpieces stand guard everywhere.

Finally, I am standing outside the Oval, with the door to Snow's office ajar just a crack. I can hear voices coming from inside.

"Such spirit... such boldness... such ingenuity..." Snow's velvety voice wafts out to me. "Lucy Gray, if you cannot control your Victor, I will, and trust me, you don't want any part of that..."

"Coriolanus, haven't you done that already?" Lucy Gray seems to almost scoff, but there is a hesitancy to her voice. "Please don't harm Haymitch. He's just a boy. Sometimes too smart for his own good, but other than that, harmless."

"No Victor is harmless, Lu... Not even you..."

Lucy Gray snorts. "Clearly. I had a good mentor. But then again, you and I both know something about cheating in the Games, don't we, Coryo?"

A brief, almost ugly pause. Then I hear Snow again. "I did love you once..." His tone is almost... tender. And my jaw drops. Were Lucy Gray and the President once...? No, impossible!

I stride into the Oval at that very moment, stopping short when I see my mentor and the President of Panem wrapped into each other's arms and passionately kissing. My eyes bulge, and when Lucy Gray's closed eyes pop open and see me, she wrenches out of the kiss with a POP!, mortified.

"Haymitch..." she breathes.

I look from one to the other, holding Snow's dangerous studying of me. "I don't believe this!"

I storm from the mansion, ignoring the sound of footfalls as my mentor hurries after me. "Haymitch..." she pleads.

"Shove it up your ass, Lucy Gray!" I barely wait for her to climb into the limo after me and we race to the Capitol train station. A strained silence holds until I blast it out. I have to know:

"Do you fuck him every year during the Games?"

" _No_!" Lucy Gray squeaks, disgusted by my vulgarity. "Coryo and I..."

" _Coryo_?..."

"... are old friends."

"How?"

"Because he was my mentor!"

I lean back from her shout, eyes wide, the bigger picture now becoming all the clearer. As we exit the car and board the train, I spin to face my colleague. "Just answer me this:... did you know he ordered my family and Rosemary to be killed?"

Lucy Gray meets my stare squarely. "No."

I can tell from her eyes she speaks true. I nod once shortly, satisfied. "Let's go home."

I never tell her about the DVD of her Games hidden in my jacket.


	9. Panic Room

**Chapter 9: Panic Room**

The high-speed locomotive hasn't even slowed to a complete stop before the hydraulic doors are opening and Lucy Gray and I are stepping off back onto District 12 soil.

"Another loss," my mentor sighs.

I simply grunt. "You're surprised?"

She shrugs. "A little. You may have been plastered, but you can't tell me you didn't work hard to get that pick-axe to our boy tribute."

I snort. "For all the good it did. He just missed the Final Eight. I can't believe that stupid girl from 5 won the whole thing just by hiding! But... I suppose James is pleased."

Lucy Gray smiles tightly, but doesn't fully glance in my direction as we leave the District 12 train station and make our way into Town. I am sure she rues the day she ever introduced me to James Logan and Chaff Mitchell. When the three of us get together, it's free drinks for ourselves and everyone else, the booze flowing like water. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know it is humiliating to be a seasoned alcoholic at only 23. But it is hard not to drink yourself to death when this year's Games - the 57th - were a complete disaster. Just like last year. And the year before that. And every year since I won. Two more kids from Twelve are coming home in wooden coffins.

"Home again?" I slur as we reach the edge of Town.

"No, sorry, I just have to make one stop - at the apothecary," Lucy Gray explains.

My face falls a little bit. "Oh. Right."

The tinkling of the chime signals our entrance to the store. Belle Foley smiles brightly at us from where she is working the counter. I have to admit, Belle is one of the nicest girls I've ever known, outside of my dearly departed Rosemary. She has also grown into quite a beautiful woman, her smile warm and dazzling as she rings up Lucy Gray's purchases at the counter. Side-eyeing me, Lucy Gray reluctantly plucks a bottle of wine from a nearby shelf and adds it to her total.

"$40.24 is your bill, Miss Baird," the apothecary's daughter chirps.

"Thanks, Belle," Lucy Gray smiles. Then she turns to me. "Wait outside." I know better than to argue. Leaning lazily against the shopfront window, I note how pretty much every passersby who sees me quickly averts their gaze. Some of the more snooty Merchants even sneer in my direction. I don't really care. I'm the reason this dump of a district can boast about having a Quarter Quell Victor. As a customer practically runs past me to enter the apothecary shop, I can hear Lucy Gray and Belle's low voices briefly waft to my ear from under the tinkling of the chime.

"... you have to talk to him! He could keel over from alcohol poisoning..."

"... I gave up trying to rehab him a long time ago, Belle. Best leave it up to the fates. And besides, Haymitch has always been able to hold his liquor quite well."

The door has only just closed when it is swaying open again, and out comes my mentor. She smiles as warmly as she can at me. I pretend I didn't hear her and Belle's private conversation as we cross over into the Seam and start our final hike to the Village.

The Victors' Village of District 12 is well isolated, high on a hill. Unlike most other districts, our Village is seen as more of a forbidden place, its inhabitants freak accidents of the Games' brutal wrath. I still live in the same mansion where right outside its door, my loved ones were murdered seven years ago; Lucy Gray's palace is directly across the street. Turning off to the right and towards her front stoop, I hang back as my mentor picks up a pile of envelopes from against her bottom doorjamb.

"Mail's here."

I drift over to her and she begins dealing out my own mail to me, separating it from hers the way a card player might deal out a deck. It's not exactly light reading - mostly Capitol catalogs with the stray summons from our District's Justice Building. Pausing at an envelope which I can see is addressed to us jointly, Lucy Gray frowns with curiosity and opens it. Scanning the first line, she reports flatly, "It's from the school."

I groan. "Not the truant officer again!" Victors of the Hunger Games are technically allowed to drop out of school after they win. I did it - hell, I was never that great a student anyway. I mostly went to make sure Gregory stayed out of trouble in the Special Ed School and bullies left him alone. Lucy Gray dropped out after she won nearly half a century ago. That doesn't stop the district truancy board from attempting to enroll Victors again; in a place as poor as this, there is always money to be made. Money that Twelve desperately needs.

"No, it's not about that..." Lucy Gray starts, but I cut her off.

"... because I am not going back to finish school, Lu! 1. I'm over 18, so they can't make me. 2. I don't need to, because I have a steady job -"

"A steady _summer_ job," Lucy Gray mutters dryly. I ignore her.

" - and 3. I have more money than Snow, so why do I need to learn useless stuff for some boring career?"

"And you spend all that money on booze," Lucy Gray retorts, slight contempt in her voice. "But that's not what this is about: the Upper School is inviting us to give a presentation for its Hunger Games History class."

I remember that class. I used to hate it. It was so _boring_ and all we mostly did was watch reruns of past Games on a beat-up, old projector. "What for?"

"Apparently, they're placing a greater emphasis on District 12's Victories in the curriculum."

I can't imagine why that would help. There has never been a public re-airing of Lucy Gray's Games... and from the secret viewings I have done of my pilfered DVD, late at night, I can see why: hers was a shitshow. Probably embarassed the Capitol just as much as my Quell did. The difference, of course, is that, because my Games was a Quell, the Capitol is somewhat compelled to rebroadcast it. It's too... memorable.

"This has more to do with my Victory than yours," I guess.

Lucy Gray shrugs. "Your win was historic. Being the Victor of a Quell carries even greater weight and status; surely Indigo taught you that."

He did. But - "I don't wanna dress up in a monkey suit and show some Powerpoint slides about the worst week of my life!"

"Nonsense! This whole district needs that kind of morale boost. We're going to present at the school, Haymitch, and that's the end of it."

"But Lucy Gray -"

"The END of it!"

* * *

Night always seems to fall peacefully here in District 12. Under the recently new command of Cray, the Peacekeepers have actually backed off a little bit since the murder of my loved ones. The white-plated officers patrolling the streets are less quick on the draw. Public whippings have all but disappeared, as have executions. And in the fairly new black market of the Seam, known colloquially as the Hob, illegal dealings are conducted nearly out in the open, with Peacekeepers looking the other way and sometimes even getting in on the take.

At night, I can sit at the table in my rich, Capitol IKEA kitchen - which by this point looks like a bomb went off in it - and sip straight from the wine bottle in peace.

The stillness of the night is interrupted by what sounds like a frantic knocking at the door. But the sound seems too far away to be coming from just the other side of my foyer. Frowning, I cross to the window and lift back the curtain. Through the grimy panes, I see two young adults standing on the porch of Lucy Gray's house across the street. I watch as Lucy Gray emerges in her nightgown, a lantern in hand. Curious, I stroll blithely through my foyer and amble out onto my own porch. I can hear the voices from clear across the way:

"Yarrow? What are you doing here?"

"We're in trouble, Miss Baird," Yarrow Everdeen pleads, clutching the hand of a striking young lady, whom I realize with a start is none other than Belle Foley, the apothecary's daughter. "She stole her mother's wedding dress and we went and signed papers at the Justice Building. We're in love."

Lucy Gray's eyes narrow. "And now they're after you," she guesses.

"The whole of Town!" Belle whimpers, trembling, but gazing into Yarrow's smiling eyes, her jaw sets, resolute.

Just then, on the wind, I hear raised voices. From high on the hill, peering out into the distance, I can see the glow of torches, bobbing like buoys through the darkness as they prowl through Town. The posse/search party will reach the Seam before long, and then make their way here...

"Haymitch!" Lucy Gray calls. "Come here!"

I stroll over, trying to act nonchalant, nodding to Belle, as well as Yarrow Everdeen. Yarrow was in my year in school, though we rarely interacted. His mother is Maude Ivory, the first female Miner Foreman District 12's ever had. She was apparently quite the singer, and once a member of the legendary Covey, back in the day.

"Hurry up!" Lucy Gray snaps impatiently, and I bound onto the porch. Lucy Gray passes the terrified couple off to me. "Go inside, take them to the Telephone Room!"

The voices in Town are drawing closer, so I don't argue. Taking Belle by the hand, I lead her into Lucy Gray's foyer, through the kitchen and down a flight of stairs. Lucy Gray steals inside just after us. "Let's go."

The Telephone Room is actually in the mansion's basement. Every single living Victor in every mansion of every Victors' Village in Panem has to have one. The whole space is equipped with a desk and a big, red phone atop it. A phone that gives you a direct hotline to the Capitol. Mine has become a useful place for storage; I almost never go in there.

I guide a shaking Belle into the desk chair, then sprint back for the stairs up to the ground floor. "Stay in here. Don't make a sound. And whatever you do, don't touch that phone!"

"Why? Is it bugged?" Belle shrinks away from the thing as though it is on fire.

"We don't know," I say grimly. "Lu and I have picked over this room, and mine, and we haven't been able to find any hidden mics and cameras. But we're sure they're watching us. Best not to take any chances."

Slamming the door behind me, I wheel back into the kitchen, where I find Lucy Gray popping the cork off a full bottle of wine.

"How sloshed are you?"

I frown. "Barely. In fact, I'm relatively sober at the moment. Why?"

"I can't believe I'm saying this..." Lucy Gray takes a deep breath, before she is pushing the bottle into my hands. "Drink, Haymitch! Drink!"

I chug the whole thing in one go, instantly feeling the effects rush to my head. The room starts to spin and when I teeter, Lucy Gray gets under me, slinging my arm across her shoulders. Is it the alcohol talking, or do those raised and angry voices now sound like they are coming over the hill, entering the Village?

"Don't say a damn word," Lucy Gray hisses in my ear. "Let me do the talking."

We stagger into the foyer, just as there is a purposeful knock at the door. Slowly, Lucy Gray opens it, making a show of appearing bleary-eyed, like she was just roused from bed.

A crowd of Merchants is gathered on her front stoop, tiki torches, guns and pitchforks in their hands. Every single face is laced with anger, the lights of the fires making them appear even more ghoulish. A light drizzle has begun to fall, and one of the torches in the back fizzles out with a HISS.

"Lucy Gray." At the head of the posse is Barnabus Foley, the Merchant apothecary. "We're sorry to disturb you and... the boy," he glances down his nose at me disdainfully. "But my daughter has run off with Maude Ivory's boy. They've eloped - the clerk showed me the papers they signed this afternoon at the Justice Building. Have you seen anything of them?"

"No, Barnabus," Lucy Gray apologizes, managing a pretty convincing yawn. "Haymitch and I have been home since we left your shop this morning. I was just getting him home to bed."

"Ones more bottle, Lu! Just one... more..." I decide to add to the charade by bellowing as drunkenly as I can.

Lucy Gray sends me a hairy eyeball. "Not another peep out of you," she scolds.

Barnabus nods graciously, then he and the whole posse stand aside. After a moment, Lucy Gray props me against her, and makes sure to lock her front door behind her. Dragging me through the parted crowd, she deposits me into the rocking chair on my front porch, whispering to me to stay there and shut up. Then she crosses back to her own house. "Is there anything else I can do for you gentlemen?"

"Well, if you hear word from Belle and that goddamn Everdeen boy... just holler." Barnabus turns back to his men. "Let's go, boys! Let's clear out!"

"Where else are we gonna look?" a miner grouses. "No sign of them in the Seam. They wouldn't have gone down one of the mine shafts, would they?"

"You might check the woods beyond the fence!" Lucy Gray calls out the suggestion to their retreating backs.

When they are gone, my mentor glances furtively about, races back across the street, grabs me and hauls me back into her house. Leaving me in the kitchen, I hear her pad down into the Telephone Room.

"All clear!"

Yarrow and Belle bound up the stairs, looking relieved and beyond grateful.

"How can we ever thank you?" Yarrow asks.

Lucy Gray glances between the couple with a small smile. "Just love each other and be true. Have you had your Toasting yet?" The Toasting is an informal tradition in District 12. No one here feels married until you've burned a bit of bread over the hearth and shared it.

Belle blushes. "No. We were... interrupted."

Yarrow's grey eyes suddenly brighten as he gets an idea. "We need witnesses! Would you and Mr. Abernathy like to witness our Toasting, Miss Baird?"

It might be just a trick of the moonlight, but I could swear that Lucy Gray's eyes are shimmering with tears. "We'd be honored. Have it right here. I'll stoke the poker!"

And so, barely able to stand up, I actually substitute for Barnabus Foley as I escort his only daughter, Belle, down a crude aisle made from my mentor's kitchen chairs. Lucy Gray uses the poker to start up a fire in her hearth, over which Yarrow toasts a piece of bread she hands to him. Slowly, reverently, Yarrow and Belle each feed one another a piece. Eyes growing heavy and solemn, Belle then tilts her head and permits her new husband to take her in his arms and kiss her. From the way she melts into it, I can tell: she is very much in love.

Lucy Gray actually hugs Yarrow as Belle floats over to me with a soft smile and pecks me on the cheek. "Thank you."

Yarrow then pumps my hand. "Thank you, Mr. Abernathy."

"It's Haymitch," I smirk at him. "But... you're welcome, Yarrow."

We see the newlywed Everdeens off Lucy Gray's porch and out of the Village. I don't know how they'll manage - a Merchant and a Seam miner married - but I wish them godspeed. Glancing to my mentor, I notice her wiping her wet eyes.

"What's got you so emotional?"

She fixes me with a long and thoughtful stare. "Promise me you won't tell anybody?"

I blink, realizing how serious she is. "I promise," I reply sincerely.

Stepping close, Lucy Gray whispers in my ear. When I draw back, I can't help but be a little teary myself.

"I'm happy for you," I tell her. And I am.


	10. A Reaping Kiss

**Chapter 10: A Reaping Kiss**

Steffan the Baker greets me at the door early on this Reaping Morning. I have been here since before dawn, so I watch him open the Bakery and he ushers me in. I sit at my usual table, in the far corner, and watch as Steffan sets to work, stoking the ovens and preparing the day's bread. Before long, the whole establishment comes alive around him as three strapping boys - all of them with blonde hair - run around, bringing pastries out of the ovens, manning the till. The Baker's wife (whom everyone calls the Witch, but only behind her back), barks out orders at her husband and sons, occassionally pausing in her diatribes to sneer in my direction. The customers who arrive in a steady stream know to steer clear of her, preferring instead to deal with the Baker or one of his sons.

At a lull around mid-morning, Steffan presents me with another pint and I smile at him gratefully. His yeast-based brews are always the best. Despite already being plastered off my ass, I am with it enough to check my watch. 9 AM. Reaping will start in another hour.

It is just then that I hear the tinkling of the bell, and two attractive young women come in. The oldest has brown hair in a single braid running down her back. The little one is as blonde as a Merchant. The Everdeen girls - Katniss and Primrose.

Yarrow and Belle Everdeen's daughters are real beauties, particularly Katniss, the oldest girl. Clad already in the royal blue Reaping dress she always wears to each Reaping, at 16, she turns a lot of heads. But she never so much as returns a smile in any of the lusting boys' direction, at least that I've seen. Ever since poor Yarrow died in a mining collapse roughly five years ago, I hear she has been raising the household alone, doting on Prim and helping Belle literally stay on her feet. I saw Belle once, not too long ago, on an outing in Town that has become rare for her as much as it has me - she looked dead inside. Like all the light had gone out of her.

Right away, I notice the youngest lad (name starts with a P... can't remember what it is...) straighten a little behind the counter. The Witch sees the two beautiful girls and disappears down into the storeroom with a huff. The Baker disappears to the back, followed by the other two sons. The youngest lad - Peeta, that's his name! - is left alone with the two pretty girls.

"Um..." Katniss lamely holds up a game bag clearly stuffed with catches. "The back loading dock door was locked."

"That's OK," Peeta sends her a winning smile. "I can make the trade from here; Dad won't mind."

Pursing her lips into a tight frown, Katniss reluctantly acquiesces. Approaching the counter to make the barter, she bends down and whispers tenderly in Primrose's ear. The little girl, also gussied up (poor thing, this must be her first Reaping), happily peers at all the iced cookies and pastires in the display window under the counter. Meanwhile, Peeta holds up a dead squirrel and inspects it, whistling, impressed.

"Right in the eye, every time!" I think I see Katniss's cheeks bloom pink, which she immediately counters with an almost embarassed scowl. Ducking under the counter, Peeta pulls out two loaves of bread. I can see the steam wafting up from them clear across the room; they must have come straight from the oven.

Katniss tries to beg off. "No, no, it's too much, and -"

"Nonsense! You know these squirrels are Dad's guilty pleasure!"

Katniss frowns. "I don't need charity, Peeta."

Peeta just smiles at her softly. "Everyone needs a little kindness, especially today of all days." Reaching a hand down, he plucks a cookie from the display window, rounds the counter, and presents it to Primrose with a bow. "For you."

Primrose accepts the cookie shyly.

"What do you say?" Katniss prompts, like a mother would to her child.

"Thank you, Peeta," the little girl chirps meekly.

"You're very welcome," Peeta beams genuinely at her, folding his arms over the counter. "So: either of you lovely ladies stolen a Reaping Kiss yet?"

The Reaping Kiss has been a tradition ever since before I was Reaped. Legend has it that if you are eligible for the Games and share a kiss with someone on Reaping Morning, you are protected from being picked. I shared a Reaping Kiss with my girl, Rosemary, the morning of the Quell Reaping. She even kissed Gregory, too, to make sure he was protected.

The Reaping Kiss protected my brother. It didn't protect me.

Katniss has leaned back a little bit, eyes wide. Flushing red, she mumbles something about how she doesn't "believe in that superstitious stuff." Primrose, on the other hand, is gazing up at Peeta with shining eyes.

"No," she prattles on excitedly. "I asked Rory Hawthorne to kiss me, but he said it was too icky."

Peeta grins down at her for a moment, thoughtful. Kneeling down to her level, he softly pecks Primrose on the cheek. "There. That should do it."

Prim squeals and throws her arms around him. "Thank you, Peeta!"

"Go wait outside for me, Prim," Katniss prompts. She turns back to Peeta, teary. "Thank you."

He shrugs. "No problem." As Katniss turns to leave, Peeta suddenly gathers his courage and grabs her hand.

"Katniss."

"What?" she murmurs, turning back to him. She only has time to regard him in confusion as Peeta takes her by the waist, pulls her close. Tipping her face back in his free hand, he kisses her right on the mouth.

Katniss stiffens in the embrace, her eyes bulging as she lets out a surprised whimper into his lips. She actually holds the kiss for a moment, and even seems to relax into it for just a second, kissing him back, until -

Katniss suddenly wrenches her head back out of the kiss with a loud POP! "No!" she yelps, her face flaming red, and her breasts heaving for every gulp of air under the bodice of her blue dress. "I shouldn't have done that." She glances furtively in my direction, flushed that they have an audience.

The light in Peeta's blue eyes dim, looking a little hurt. "I'm sorry..."

"It's... OK..." Katniss runs her fingers through her braid before daring to look Peeta in the face. Deciding something, she quite abruptly smashes his face in her hands and kisses him firmly on the lips in return. A moment later, she jerks away. "Thank you," she breathes stupidly, before turning tail and running from the Bakery. A confused and crestfallen Peeta turns back to the counter, and I flag him down.

"Check, please!"

* * *

I stumble through the Seam and all the way back to Victors' Village. Coming over the crest of the hill, I see Lucy Gray on her porch, perched in her rocking chair. She's 80 years old now, and though she is still lucid and sharp, my mentor now needs a cane to walk most places ever since a fall in her home about eight years ago.

Seeing me, she cocks an eyebrow. "How sloshed are you?" It is a question that is almost a joke at this point, for how often it's asked.

"Sloshed enough," I reply. I don't bother mentioning how I saw Yarrow and Belle's oldest girl share a kiss (or two) with the Baker's youngest son.

"Well, hurry up," Lucy Gray orders. "The Peacekeepers will be here in five minutes."

I stagger up to my stoop and enter my house. Exactly five minutes later, I hear a sharp knock at my front door. Openining it, Peacekeepers surround me and force me out onto the stoop. The whole guns-drawn thing seems a little unnecessary now after 24 years, but that doesn't seem to stop the officers. At the very least, they are almost courteous to Lucy Gray and her age, as she moves more slowly.

Lucy Gray and I are placed into a line, in order of Victory. Cray locks and loads his gun. "Victors: forward! Quick... march!"

So Lucy Gray and I begin a sort of high-strutting goosestep as we are escorted under heavy guard down the hill, through the Seam and Town and all the way to the Justice Building. Due to her age, my mentor sets the pace, but we reach the Justice Building with about ten minutes to spare before the top of the hour.

Lucy Gray and I are ushered in through a side door, where we shake hands with Mayor Undersee. He's been married for years to Maysilee's twin sister (I know this because I received a restraining order on the announcement of their upcoming Toasting, making it explicitly clear that I was to stay away. The Mayor's wife has never forgiven me for coming home in place of her sister). As I understand it, she and the Mayor have a daughter together.

Then my mentor and I meet up with Effie Trinket. She's been District 12's escort for the past fourteen years. I had my hang-ups with our old escort, Mitzi Hoops - she's retired now, with Lucy Gray and I still writing to her on occassion - but I prefer her immensely to this snooty gal.

The clock strikes 10, and Lucy Gray and I are ushered onto the stage. The Panem anthem plays, then the Glory to the Games video. This is the part where I am grateful for being zonked - I can tune it out all the better. All I really have to do is listen for Mayor Undersee reading the names of past District 12 Victors.

"The Victor of the 10th Hunger Games: Lucy Gray Baird!" I have enough presence of mind to grip Lucy Gray by her elbow, help her briefly to her feet.

"The Victor of the 50th Hunger Games, or Second Quarter Quell: Haymitch Abernathy!" I wave stupidly to the crowd, who respond with laughter just as much as light applause. I learned a long time ago to ignore it.

Effie now bustles up, adjusting her mauve wig. "Welcome, welcome! The time has come to choose one young man and woman for the honor of representing District 12 in the 74th Annual Hunger Games. Ladies first!" She crosses to a glass bowl at the right, plucks one slip of paper and unfurls it.

"Primrose Everdeen!"

Despite my intoxication, my mind instantly flashes back to the little girl I saw in the Bakery just this morning. Oh no... she's 12, I'd bet my life on it. And no one younger than 14 has ever won the Games. As I watch, the little girl with blond pigtails steps, petrified, out of the crowd, beginning her walk to doom.

But Prim can't be as petrified as the beautiful young woman in the blue dress who stumbles out of line after her. "Prim!" Katniss's voice is choked with terror, stricken. "Prim!"

Peacekeepers move in to cut the Everdeen girl off from her sister; in desperation, she screams, "I volunteer! I VOLUNTEER! I volunteer as tribute!"

I glance over to Lucy Gray, whose mouth is unhinged in pained shock. I am just as flabbergasted. District 12 has never had anyone volunteer for the Games. Ever. In 74 years.

Effie, however, looks positively delighted by this turn of events. "Wonderful!" she beckons Katniss up onto the stage, while a hulking, dark-haired boy who must be in his last Reaping picks a wailing Prim up and carries her away.

"What's your name?" Effie is asking.

"Katniss Everdeen." Her voice is wooden.

"Well, I bet my hat that was your sister!" I want to yell at Effie to leave the poor girl alone - isn't this difficult enough? Unfortunately, I'm too drunk.

"Yes... it was." Katniss still sounds like she's in a trance.

"And now for the boys." Effie whips out a slip of paper so fast, I hardly see it (although it's not like my eyes can do much tracking, anyway) before she calls out, "Peeta Mellark!"

Well, now I know one thing: the Reaping Kiss definitely doesn't work. It has to be a bunch of hogwash, if two people who actually kissed each other are both Reaped for this thing. The Baker's youngest son mounts the stage, terrified, shaking hands with a heartbroken Katniss when prompted.

Then we are all taken into Capitol custody.

* * *

The lines aren't as long as they were for me and my friends 24 years ago. Belle and little Primrose say goodbye to their Katniss, as does the dark-haired boy who helped carry the little one away. The Boy's whole family visits, and I actually manage a bob of the head in Steffan's direction when he emerges back outside.

Katniss and Peeta are finally handed over to us and we are muscled into the armored car to take us to the train station. I have to help Lucy Gray sit up front, our tributes and Effie squeezed across the backseat. I may not like Trinket, but giving up my seat for her is the gentlemanly thing to do; besides, all they need to do is roll me in and I can crouch pretty much in whatever space is left.

Effie is prattling on to the kiddies about everything to see in the Capitol, like we are going on holiday. I have to fault Effie for her insensitivity, but then again, Mitzi was the same way. Our escort doesn't appear to notice how Peeta's eyes have grown red and puffy from crying.

We are all loaded onto the train, and the locomotive is speeding away from Twelve before we have even reached our seats.

Dinner passes in almost uniform silence. It is the Boy who finally breaks it with an eager, "So: what do we do first? What's your advice?"

My eyes cross, the glass tumbler of amber liquid tipping in my hand. "Here's some advice - stay alive!" Then I burst out laughing.

After a moment of blinking, Peeta laughs along. "That's funny..." His face goes from jovial to rage in an instant as he sharply backhands my tumbler out of my grasp. Glass shatters and the booze runs down the length of the train car. "Only not to us."

Out of my seat, I consider this for a moment. I need a test. So thinking, I haul and punch Peeta full in the face, reeling him backwards.

"Haymitch!" Lucy Gray gasps in mortified shock, though she really shouldn't be so surprised. She knows I've employed this trick before.

Only I've never gotten these kind of results before, because as I'm reaching for a second glass of spirits, Katniss fiercely drives a butter knife in between my fingers, the blade - though serrated - inches from my skin.

Effie squeaks. "That is mahogany!" We all ignore her.

Studying the knife that nearly got impaled into my skin, my eyes narrow. I glance up at Sweetheart, who just stares me down.

"Well, now, Lucy Gray, what's this?" I call to my mentor without turning my head. "Did we actually get a pair of fighters this year?"

Behind me, Peeta is struggling to his feet. There's a large, red welt just above his jawline and he reaches for some ice in the beer cooler. I throw out a hand to stop him. "No, let the bruise show. The Peacekeepers will think you've mixed it up with one of the other tributes before the arena."

"That's against the rules," Peeta frowns hard.

I knew this boy was too much of a goody-goody. I shrug flippantly. "Only if they catch you. That bruise says you fought, you weren't caught, even better."

Meanwhile, Lucy Gray is pondering the knife between my fingers. "Dear..." she directs towards Katniss. "Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?"

I start a little bit, thinking she may have just given our tribute explicit permission to have another go at me. Instead, Katniss plucks the knife from the placemat and hurls it into the far wall. It impales itself right in the groove between two panelings. Maybe it was sheer luck, but I can't be so sure. Countering my dumb blinking, Lucy Gray merely gives a toothy smile, shaking her head. "Just like your father..." she whispers.

Katniss hears it. "You knew my father?"

"I did. And your grandmother too."

"Grammaude?" Katniss re-takes her seat, intensely focused on Lucy Gray.

The old lady nods, deep in memory. "We were... friends once."

Katniss purses her lips in a tight, contemplative frown. "Funny. She never mentioned you."

This doesn't seem to deter Lucy Gray, as her grin broadens. "I have plenty more stories about both of them, if you'd like."

A beat. And then Katniss rises, offering the old lady her arm. Lucy Gray takes it gratefully, and helping her to her feet, the two women stroll off to the next car.

Peeta now approaches me. "I've been hoping to talk with you alone, since you're going to be my mentor."

"I'll be mentor for both of you, unless either of you explicitly requests otherwise," I tell him. "The rule is, Victors have to mentor by gender, when they can afford it. But Lucy Gray... she's slowing up. Tires easily. I've been trying to pick up more off her end, so she can rest."

Peeta nods at me with something that almost looks like respect. "Considering how drunk you usually are, I have to commend you."

"Thanks," I blink. Despite the fact that I introduced myself to him by way of a punch, this boy is already starting to grow on me. He doesn't appear to hold a grudge. Huh. Retaking our seats, I face him. "So what's up?"

At this, Peeta bursts into tears. "I can't kill Katniss, Haymitch!"

I eye him with pity. "You may have to, boy, if you want to live."

"Even then, I couldn't. I... I love her! And I think she loves me."

I cock my head at this, considering it. A love story has never shown up in the Games before. Maybe... maybe this could be an angle. I think back to watching Katniss and Peeta kissing in the bakery this morning. "And does Sweetheart know of this?"

To my surprise, Peeta nods. "She needed a lot of convincing, but... we've been seeing each other in total secret for weeks."

I am reminded painfully of myself and Rosemary. Even today, Merchant and Seam romances and marriages don't mix. The affair and wedding of Katniss's parents is still the last known instance of people Toasting the bread across class lines.

But with a romance like this, playing out in the arena... a possible win could do more good than I even thought possible.

"Well, Boy," I say. "You and I are gonna have a lot of interview prep to do."


	11. Training and Interviews, Part II

**Chapter 11: Training & Interviews, Part II**

**Katniss's POV**

The Capitol is as beautiful and extravagant as I imagined or ever saw on TV. As soon as Haymitch, Peeta and I disembark from the train, throngs of screaming citizens wearing loud, flashy clothing and jewelry try to evade the paparazzi to greet us.

A limousine takes us to a special medical facility. I look to Haymitch wonderingly.

"Stylists," he reminds me shortly.

Ah, yes. Before we begin training, all the tributes must be prepped by their assigned stylist so as to appear pretty before all of the Capitol. Upon entering the place, I only just have time to squeeze Peeta's hand before we are separated. Being primped and preened into something Capitol-worthy would be so much more bearable if I at least had a friend to commiserate with.

But it turns out, I do. Upon greeting me, my dark-skinned stylist praises me. "That was the most wonderful thing you did, for your sister. My name is Cinna."

"Katniss," I return. There's a pause where Cinna appears to be looking me up and down. "So, you were assigned to District 12?"

"I asked for District 12," he smiles, and somehow I can tell he's sincere. His admission surprises me. Twelve is probably the biggest loser district of them all, given our god-awful victory record. That any Capitolite would want to even touch us makes me grant Cinna a great deal of respect.

Still - "So, you're here to make me look pretty?" That's his job, after all.

"I'm here for you to make an _impression_ ," he corrects me, and the way he puts it makes me feel somewhat better about my circumstances.

Cinna dresses me in a sleek gray jumpsuit and pants, but tells me that the real 'impression' won't come until that night during the Tributes Parade in the City Circle.

When Effie drops me off at the chariot stables that evening, I see Peeta already waiting in a matching jumpsuit. With his blond hair sleeked back and coifed, he looks quite sexy and I have to banish any dirty thoughts from my mind.

Haymitch is by my boyfriend's side, and so is Cinna, carrying a small object in his hand.

"Are you ready?" he asks, holding the object slightly aloft.

"For what? What is that?"

"This is going to set your clothes on fire." Cinna says this without a shred of irony.

Peeta stares. "You're joking," but Cinna ignores him, eyes only for me. Staring back at him, I have an overwhelming wave of trust wash over me. I nod once. He approaches with what must be a lighter.

"Don't be afraid."

"I'm not afraid," I reply automatically, and I give Peeta a look that says if he can't trust Cinna, he should at least trust me. Peeta nods solemnly, getting the silent message.

But instead of lighting anything, Cinna presses the lighter into my hand. And I realize it isn't a lighter at all - it's a button, the kind that contestants would press on game time quiz shows. "Press this when you're ready." He hands a second one to Peeta.

The tributes are now scrambling to get into their chariots. As Peeta and I approach ours, he playfully bows before me. "Allow me, mademoiselle."

I smile at his boyish charm. "Why, thank you, kind sir!" and I let him take my hand and help me up into the chariot.

Being the very last tribute pair to go, it takes a bit before our chariot even starts to move. As we emerge into the bright lights of the city and hear the roar of the crowd, I instinctively know what to do.

"Now!" I holler to Peeta.

And we press the buttons.

All at once, I feel a tingly heat race up around my body. But it is not like the kind I experience when Peeta and I make love. No, this heat feels more…. artificial, but nevertheless soothing.

Then, I hear the roars of the crowd reach a fever pitch. Amidst all the cheering, I hear one call in particular: my name.

"Katniss! Katniss! Katniss! Katniss!"

By the time our chariot reaches the City Circle and President Snow has given his address, all the other tributes are staring at Peeta and me in jealousy.

Talk about an impression, indeed.

* * *

The very next morning, Haymitch takes us down in an elevator to the first floor of the Tribute Training Center. It will be our home for the next four days while we train for the arena, and prepare for our televised interviews with Caesar Flickerman.

"Now, remember," Haymitch warns us. "Use this time to learn something new. Do not show off your strengths."

"Got it," I nod.

"Oh, and one more thing," our mentor adds before releasing us. "You two stick together like glue."

This last instruction throws me. I had always assumed Peeta and I could split up and cover more ground. We can take care of ourselves. This rationalization leads me to break off from him about an hour or so into our session. My boyfriend does not seem to mind and, figuring he can handle himself, I continue to ignore Haymitch's advice by reviewing my knowledge at the Edible Plants section. When I tire of that, I return to find Peeta painting his arm to match the bark of a fake tree. I stare.

"That's amazing!" I breathe.

"Is it?" he shrugs self-deprecatingly. "I used to decorate the cakes down at the bakery."

I smile. "You never told me that!"

He laughs. "Playing up my wrestling skills seemed to be a much more effective way to court you."

I smile.

Later in the day, I am learning about knife throwing when I see Peeta over in the Ropes Course sector. Struggling to climb a netted ladder, he ends up twisting himself in the thing and falls the few feet to the floor.

Laughter makes me glance over to the Careers - the tributes from District 1, 2 and 4 who illegally train for the Games since birth and always form an alliance. They win the thing almost every year.

And they are now looking at my boyfriend as though he is their dinner or something. Fiercely protective, I get an idea and race over to Peeta's side.

"Throw that metal thing over there," I tell him, eyeing some giant weight balls over on a nearby rack.

"What?" Peeta pants. "But Haymitch said -"

"I don't care what Haymitch said. Frankly, I haven't cared all day. Those guys are looking at you like you're a meal. Throw it."

Peeta gets to his feet and approaches the rack. Selecting the biggest metal ball he can find, he manages to carry it to the center of the Training Floor. With all his might, he hurls the thing so hard, it slams into a rack of spears almost on the other side of the room.

I immediately search for the Careers' reaction. Their leader - a blond, imposing boy from District 2 named Cato - simply shrugs and murmurs something to his companions that I cannot make out. But, from the look on his face, he appears to be…. impressed.

On the evening of the second day, I enter our apartment's dining room, ready for my coaching session with Haymitch and Peeta. But I only find my mentor at the table.

"Where's Peeta?" I ask him as I sit down.

"Not coming," Haymitch tells me, and I'm surprised. I didn't think Haymitch was the kind of teacher who would just permit absences, excused or otherwise.

"Why? Is he sick?" I remind myself to check on him in his room once I'm done here.

Haymitch shrugs. "Peeta has said he wants to be coached separately."

My being feels as though it has been untethered from reality. Even though Haymitch has probably already seen the hurt in my eyes, I promptly get up and leave the room. I am grateful the old man doesn't follow me. The door to my room has barely closed before I collapse on my bed in tears.

Why would Peeta no longer want to be coached with me? Is this because of how I have mostly stayed separate of him in Training? He's never seemed bothered by it, and even if he was, he would tell me. Right? Couples tell each other things.

Another horrid explanation strikes me, and it sends me spiraling down into deeper despair. The man I love is preparing to kill me. That must be it! When was the last time we even kissed? Was it…. on the train? Has Peeta finally accepted that the arena is no place for love? Is he letting me go? Is he finally placing his own survival over how he feels about me?

With thoughts like this stewing inside of me, I cry myself to sleep.

* * *

The next day is our last day of Training and our private session with the Gamemakers. I am the second-to-last called. As I leave, Peeta calls out, "Shoot straight, honey." Thoughts both warm and bristling go to war in my head over his pet name for me. I do not say anything.

My frustration only gets worse when I perceive that none of the Gamemakers are even bothering to watch my session, their attention instead focused on a giant suckling pig. Enraged, I shoot an arrow right through the apple in the pig's mouth. That gets their attention. I mockingly bow.

"Thank you for your consideration."

By the time I return to our team's apartment, Haymitch, Effie and Cinna have all heard about my stunt. Haymitch thinks it's hilarious; Effie is appalled at my apparent lack of manners. Cinna breaks the tie by praising me, though gently. "You were well within your rights to demand their attention, Katniss; you are a tribute, after all."

When Peeta returns from his session and hears the whole story, he flashes me a winning grin that cannot help but warm my heart. "I'm proud of you," he declares. And despite the fact that he hurt me with his wish to be coached separately, I smile back at him.

Outnumbered 3 to 1, Effie has no choice but to join us on the couch to watch the Training Scores be broadcast live. She is tempered by Lucy Gray making an appearance for the first time since we arrived in the Capitol, but our elderly mentor soon needs to be helped to bed before Twelve's scores are even read. Except for the Careers and their predictably high scores, everyone else's are mediocre. Then we get to District 12.

"First we have Peeta Mellark, with a score of 8." Caesar announces.

This seems to finally reverse Effie's mood, for she praises Peeta in her rather awkward way. "We can work with that."

"And last, but not least, we have the lovely Katniss Everdeen with a score of…." There is a pause as Caesar peers closer at the paper. Is something wrong?

"11."

11!

Effie lets out a squeal and Haymitch whoops like some kind of cowboy. I turn to find a stunned Peeta pulling me into a hug. "Congratulations," he whispers in my ear, and I dare to lean my head on his shoulder.

Cinna doles out champagne for the adults and immediately proposes a toast. "To Katniss Everdeen, the Girl on Fire!"

* * *

The next night are the interviews with Caesar Flickerman. Ordinarily, being paraded in front of all of Panem would and should be terrifying for someone like me, whose social skills are average at best. However, with Cinna's wonderful red dress that he designed for me, I feel I at least have something to turn to in conversation. Or to hide behind. I am not quite sure yet.

As with the Training Scores, only a few tributes stand out to me. Cato comes off as extremely arrogant, expecting to come back alive as the champion. The redheaded girl from 5 is sly and elusive. There is a little black girl from District 11 that reminds me painfully of Prim.

Before I know it, it's my turn. As I take the stage, I can just hear the roar of the crowd and I shake Caesar's hand in a fog. My stupor is so great that I know he's asked me a question already, but I cannot focus on what it is.

"What?" I blink stupidly.

"Uh oh, I think someone's a little nervous," Caesar laughs, graciously giving me a save. The crowd laughs, plays along. "I said: How did you feel when those flames came on at the Tribute Parade?"

I think back to the advice Cinna gave me in my dressing room: _Be honest_.

"Well, I was just hoping I wouldn't burn to death," I reply sheepishly.

Caesar eats it up, and his easygoing nature actually relaxes me. "In fact, I'm wearing some today. Would you like to see?"

Neither Caesar nor the audience seems to know what I mean. So I show them. Standing from my chair, I begin to twirl as Cinna instructed me to. Flames all at once begin to lap up the hem of my dress. I can hear the audience shrieking in delight, spy Caesar clapping his hands in rapture. I soon have to sit down before I get too dizzy.

"My, my, Katniss! That was marvelous!" The audience cheers in agreement with Caesar. The interviewer's expression grows somber.

"I have one more question for you. It's about your sister. What did you say to her after the Reaping?"

No. I can joke about fire and twirl for these people, but I cannot bear my soul to them about my precious little sister. But then I remember Cinna's words: _Be honest_.

"I told her that I would try to win. That I would try to win for her." There. At least then I can be honest while keeping the details to myself.

"Of course you did," Caesar smiles. "And try you will." He kisses my hand as time expires. "Katniss Everdeen, the Girl on FIRE!"

The audience goes nuts at my exit. I head for the wings, hearing the applause continue as my boyfriend enters from the other side of the stage. Back with Haymitch and Effie, I watch Peeta begin his talk with Caesar.

I have always known my lover to be charming and that he has a great sense of humor. He puts it to good use with Caesar, turning a question about the Capitol's showers into a running gag that involves him and the host sniffing each other. At last, Caesar manages to pull himself together after nearly crying with laughter and turns serious.

"Now, Peeta, tell me: Is there a special girl back home?"

"No, nah, there isn't," Peeta chuckles.

"I don't believe it for a second! Look at that face!" Caesar plays to the crowd. "Peeta: tell me."

There is a pause. What will he do? What do I _want_ him to do? Do I want him to make our relationship public in front of the entire country? Or will he refrain? If he chooses the latter and plays coy, is that an explanation for why he has been so distant in his display of affection for me? But Peeta is now answering.

"Well, there is this one girl that I've been in love with forever. And she loves me back. But I don't think I appreciated how much until the Reaping."

I think I know where this is going. He is going to be honest, while still keeping what should be private as private.

"Well, Peeta, you go out there, and you _win_ this thing, and when you get home, she will love you even more. I bet she'll even marry you! Right folks?" The audience screams encouragement.

Peeta chuckles. "Thanks, but I don't think winning is going to help me at all."

"And whyever not?"

"Because she came here with me."

My mouth falls open. He outed me! He just outed our relationship in front of the entire country! I feel a new kind of heat begin to build within me now. And it isn't love.

Caesar, for his part, looks speechless and crestfallen. "Oh. Well, that's just bad luck."

"Yeah it is," Peeta morosely sighs.

The audience is taking it worse than either of them. Some are openly weeping, a few have given agonized cries. But Caesar reverses fortunes quickly, by bidding Peeta a hearty farewell. "And I think I speak for all of Panem when I say: our hearts go with yours."

* * *

A new kind of heat has built up in me, all right. Except it isn't love.

It's rage.

That boiling rage makes me target my lover like a heat-seeking missile. As soon as I spot him, I promptly pin him to the wall by the throat.

"What the hell was that I?" I shriek, finally letting the bottled-up emotions of the last several days out into the open. "You don't so much as hold my hand for four days and now you make our relationship public? Oh, but you wanna be coached separately?"

"Hey. Hey!" Haymitch is on me now, as he and Effie pull us apart. Turning to face me, my mentor eyes me sternly. "He did you a favor."

I suddenly have even less faith in Haymitch's basic vocabulary skills than I did on the train, if he can somehow interpret what just happened up there as a 'favor.' "He made me look weak!" I spit.

"He made you look desirable!" Haymitch snaps. "Now, I can sell the Star-Crossed Lovers act -"

"Unfortunately, my _boyfriend_ and I are actually in love," I drawl, sneering at Peeta over Haymitch's shoulder.

"Whatever. At least now I can honestly say you're a heartbreaker. Oh, oh, oh, how the boys back home fall longingly at your feet! Which do you think will get you more sponsors: that, or my saying you're about as exciting as a bump on a log?" Haymitch points between me and Peeta. "Whatever issues you lovebirds have right now: deal with them. By 10 AM tomorrow morning." And he orders me to my room while Effie leads Peeta away.

It only takes about a half an hour of just lying in bed and staring at the ceiling to realize that I can't sleep. As much as I hate to admit it, there is only one thing that could get me to enjoy one last peaceful night before I have to fight for my life.

Slipping out of my room, I go across the hall to Peeta's door and tentatively knock. I'm surprised when he answers after only about a minute.

He raises an eyebrow at me. "Couldn't sleep?" I shake my head.

He sighs. "Well, that makes two of us. Come on in." Taking me by the hand, he pulls me into his room. Not once breaking our contact, he slips into his bed and helps me in beside him, nestling me into his embrace without a word.

It dawns on me how much I've missed this. The feeling of lying in his embrace, in his bed after we've had sex or kissed until our lips are bruised. I savor the moment, the silence, the sensation of just _being_ with him. Nothing need be done. Nothing need be said. Peeta finally breaks the silence.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I've been so distant with you. And…. I should have told you my plan for my interview."

I turn my head against his chest, looking up to find his gaze. "Is that why you wanted to be coached separately?"

"That was the reason, yes. I'm sorry if you ever thought otherwise. I never wanted to hurt you."

"I understand," I whisper. "And…. I forgive you." I let out a long sigh. "But it doesn't change the fact that we're going into an arena of death tomorrow."

"Hey, now, what did I tell you on the train?" Peeta cups my face in his hands, his thumb gently brushing away that tears that linger there. "I. Love. You. The arena will never change that."

"But death can," I whine plaintively. But Peeta just smiles in the face of this crushing reality.

"Death cannot stop true love. All it can do is….. delay it for a little while."

He kisses me at long last, and I close my eyes, failing to hold back a moan. "Hmmmmmmm….." He pulls away far too quickly, and I am desperately reaching for him, not wanting this moment to end, when I notice the pensive expression on his face.

"What's wrong, my love?"

"I….. I just wish I could think of a way to show them…. that they don't own me," Peeta ponders. "Does that make any sense?" He glances back to me and I nod vigorously, urging for him to continue. "You know if…. if I'm probably going to die…. I want to still be me."

I take him in my arms and press my lips to his, making the kiss deep and lingering. "You will be," I murmur against his lips. "But…." and I lace my fingers through his. "I cannot afford to think like that. And neither can you. Let's just stay alive, like Haymitch said, and focus on whatever time we have left together."

Peeta and I fall asleep in each other's arms, kissing until our eyes close from sheer exhaustion.


	12. All's Fair in Love and War

**Chapter 12: All's Fair in Love and War**

The sudden knocking at the wooden door jolts me out of sleep. I whine like a small child and snuggle closer to Peeta, feel him place a kiss to my temple.

"I have to go," I whimper, slowly rising off his chest.

"Sweetheart, wait." When I turn back, he takes his face in my hands and kisses me, his tongue slithering its way into my mouth. I close my eyes and kiss back, humming in pleasure.

"Go," Peeta whispers when we break apart. "I'll meet you in there. Find you someway." A pause: "I love you."

"And I, you," I smile sweetly, before slipping out of his chambers to meet Effie.

After some prepping from my stylists, Cinna escorts me to the hovercraft, promising to meet me before I am launched into the arena. Placed in my seat, a Capitol attendant injects the tracker into my arm. Wouldn't want to lose a tribute.

A short flight later, I am hustled underground into a room resembling a holding cell, where Cinna waits for me. For the first time, he gets a good look at my arena garb.

"Jacket, sweatpants... but not too heavy. I'd guess some kind of tundra with chilly nights, but not freezing," he guesses. He seems to remember something. "Oh! And there's one more thing - to complete the look."

He fastens something small and golden to the front of my jacket. I realize it's the Mockingjay pin Prim gave to me. The Capitol had taken it from me when I arrived, and I assumed I would never see it again. I search Cinna's face, wanting to ask how he...

He only puts a finger to his lips, shaking his head. However he got it, he must have done so without anyone's permission or knowledge. My eyes fill with tears.

"Thank you," I choke out in a whisper. I unexpectedly hug him - a display of affection I had only previously reserved for my family, and more recently, Peeta.

"As a stylist, I'm not allowed to bet. But if I could, I'd bet on you." Cinna means every word he says, that much is clear. He gently escorts me to the launching pod, as an intercom gives a ten-second warning. Moments later, the glass seals around me. I look back to Cinna; now cut off from him, I allow myself to reveal fear for the very first time. Cinna only nods solemnly. Then, the pod is elevating me up, up, up into a natural and yet unnatural world...

When the sunlight finally ceases in blinding my vision, I can observe that I am in what looks like the clearing of a large, foresty wilderness. The sight heartens me, as it almost tricks me into believing I am at home on a hunt. Observing the other tributes around me keeps me grounded as to where I actually am and what my task will be, but even this is only a small rattle. Trapped in what are actually my most natural surroundings, just with other people, I recall words Gale spoke to me about killing tributes versus killing animals. _How different can it be, really?_

Beyond me lies the great metal horn known as the Cornucopia, containing all the supplies and weapons we tributes will fight over. And there, a few yards from the mouth, I spot it - a bow and arrows! If I can get to it and then turn tail...

I perform another sweep of my competition, and I now finally spy the love of my life. Peeta. He's about four tribute pedestals to my right, and when our eyes meet, he gives an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

More than a year of close friendship, romantic relationship and sleeping together enlightens me instantly to what my lover is silently telling me. He's seen the bow, and knows I have too. His message is clear:

_Don't go for it, sweetheart._

I furrow my brow in confusion, pinging a silent message back to him. _What do you mean? I need a weapon._ _We_ _need a weapon..._

And I've missed it! I've missed my chance! For the minute of waiting on our pedestals is up; the gong has sounded. The Games are on! Tributes spring off their pedestals and charge for the attaché surrounding the horn. Peeta is right with them, though I am confused and dismayed to see that he is running away from the fight and to the trees beyond, utterly defenseless.

I gather my wits and try to make up for lost time, sprinting for an orange backpack that isn't too far ahead of me. Unfortunately, another tribute - the boy from 9, I think? - gets there at exactly the same time I do, and we grapple for the prize.

All at once, the boy coughs hot, thick, blood right into my face and goes down. I see the knife in his back before I do its owner, the vicious girl from District 2 named Clove.

Who now hurls a projectile at me.

Reflexively, I block the attack with the backpack I have now won by default. There's no time to get the bow; I have to get out of here! Scrambling to my feet, I turn tail and run for the trees. I don't make it very far into the treeline before the ground falls out from under me as I cross over the edge of a steep embankment. I roll clumsily through the leaves, landing in a heap at the bottom of the slope before I pick myself up and keep going.

I judge myself to be about a mile or two away from the fighting when I finally pause to rest. I got out of there alive, with nothing but the clothes on my back, an orange pack with contents still unknown, and a knife as my only weapon.

The sound of cannons interrupts my thoughts. The bloodbath must be over! I reach twelve before the booms halt.

Half gone. As a ratio, it's pretty standard for any Games. About half of the tributes - mostly the weaker ones with one or two surprise exceptions - die the first day, leaving the stronger ones to fight it out over the following weeks.

_All right, Katniss. You know where you stand. Time to focus now._

Setting up snares keeps me calm, though I admit I would feel more at ease if I had a bow in my hands. But with what I have to work with, I manage to catch a rabbit and skin it for a late lunch/early dinner. The sun is setting by the time I finish my meal, and I decide that my safest strategy for now is to burrow in a tree for the night. It's a fairly good bet to think that most to none of the other tributes know how to climb trees, or at least, know how to climb them as well as I do. Plus, I have discovered a coil of rope in my backpack that will be perfect for an anchor; I can now go to sleep with little fear of toppling out of my natural sanctuary.

Not long after I burrow myself on a branch, the Panem anthem begins to play. And with it, the faces of the dead appear in the sky, which I observe through a gap in the tree canopy.

The first to appear is the girl from 3. The boy from 4. The boy from 5. Both from 6. Both from 7. The boy from 8. Both from 9, which includes the boy I fought for the backpack.

There should be one more, and I panic, thinking of my romantic partner for the first time. Is it Peeta? Oh, God, please, no...

But it's not. It's the girl from 10.

Deflating in relief, I sink against the trunk of the tree and fall asleep at once.

A sudden scream in the night wakes me up with a start. Glancing about wildly, I spy the faint glow of a small fire a short distance away. I want to snort. Whatever idiot girl (I could tell that much from the scream) thought lighting a blaze in the middle of the night was a good idea, she must not have wanted to win that badly. I soon hear laughter from her likely murderers.

"Thirteen down, and ten to go!" someone crows, and I stiffen, my body pounding with adrenaline and blood. The Careers. The most powerful tributes in the Games and they are yards away from my hiding place. Even with the tree's height advantage, if they spy me, I will be a sitting duck. They will stop at nothing to bring me down.

Indeed, my anxiety grows as the band draws closer, laughing and cheering. Then, when I judge them to be just below my tree, they stop. Oh, Jesus. Have they discovered me?

"What gives? Where's the cannon?" and I can tell the indignant inquiry comes from Cato. In fact, if I turn my head just right, I can see his head through the bramble. If only I had a bow... a shot to his temple would be oh so easy...

"Maybe that means she isn't dead," another male voice - the boy from 1, probably - hypothesizes. It's a stupidly obvious conclusion.

"She's dead. I cut her myself," Cato protests, his outrage growing.

"There wasn't a cannon, Cato! Don't you know the rules?"

"I said she's dead!"

A shouting match nearly ensues, when a third male voice cuts them all off. "We're wasting time! I'll go finish her and let's move on!"

I am safely anchored to the tree, but I nearly fall out of it anyway. For I know that voice. It is the voice that has whispered to me in my bed when I'm awake and haunted my dreams whilst I'm asleep.

Peeta.

I have no power with which to think, as a brief silence reigns while Peeta goes back for the girl. All too soon, I hear footsteps returning, then the long-awaited cannon.

"Ready to move on?" my lover asks nonchalantly, as if he has just returned from snapping a photo of the scenic view.

The Career pack takes off at a run, but I can just observe Cato and Glimmer, the girl from 1, hanging back.

"Are you sure we shouldn't just kill him now?"

"Nah," and Cato almost seems to be flirting with the blonde bimbo. "He's our best chance of finding her. Let's go."

Their departure finally gives me time to process all that I have witnessed. And to sort out what it all means.

The obvious factor is Peeta. Suddenly, it all makes sense. His distancing himself from me. His request to be coached separately. His silent warning to not go for the bow and then leaving without me.

He planned to team up with the Careers. He planned it all along. How he managed to succeed, I don't know, though I figure his show of strength in the Training Center may have given him an opening.

Though his declaration of love at his interview, and our making up afterwards, seem counterintuitive to all this, I am able to twist it to fit the narrative falling into place in my head. These late displays of affection were probably feigned, to throw me off his scent.

I want to cry. For my suspicion in the middle of training had been right all along. Our beautiful love affair is over. Whatever Peeta and I had, it's gone. He means to hand me, the now-former love of his life, over to the Careers.

My eyes glistening with tears I am not willing to shed, least of all for the Capitol's entertainment, I go back to sleep.

* * *

I wake up to the sound of BOOMs. Is it more cannons? No, there's a grating WHEESH preceding each explosion.

I yelp when I see the tree opposite me literally explode in flames from a flying fireball.

I hurriedly drop out of my tree with my things, and run for my life. Fireballs pelt the ground all around me, and I dodge them as best I can. Suddenly, one of them hurtles straight at my face, and I dodge out of the way just in time, rolling down another embankment just to avoid it.

Standing from my tumble leaves me momentarily vulnerable, and a fireball grazes my thigh. I cry out in pain, and now limp to a small rocky outcropping that provides some cover.

The fireball has singed a hole in my pants, and is well on its way to burning my skin, though the flames itself have been put out. A likely artificial Gamemaker trap such as this one will not be alleviated by natural remedies. I need medicine.

Haymitch's words on the train echo back to me: _And those things only come from_ _sponsors_ _._

If my mentor has seen my plight, he will likely be working the circuit, trying to get me relief. But that will take time. Right now, the best I can hope for is to numb the pain with herbal leaves that my mother has used for burns. Or...

Water!

I spy the river just a few yards from my refuge and stagger into the currents. The healing is not complete, but still significant so that it will do for now.

A sudden whoop jars me, and I turn, horrified, to see the Careers coming up the rocky slopes further downstream. And they have spotted me!

As fast as my injured leg will allow, I wade out of the river and search for a tree. I try to stay as relatively calm as possible, even as the Careers' taunts float towards me.

"Where you going? Where you going, baby?"

"Whoo! She's ours now!"

Ignoring the hurt, I scramble up a trunk of decent height, climbing higher, higher, higher still. By the time I am roughly fifteen feet up, the Careers - and Peeta - are just arriving at the tree's base, circling like wolves.

The tree does not seem to deter Cato, so he must at least know how to climb one. Divesting himself of his weapons, he resolves to scale up after me and kill me with sheer muscle. How arrogant of him.

"I'm coming for you!" he grins evilly, growling as he begins the ascent. Below, his allies holler encouragement. Interestingly, Peeta is the only one remaining respectfully silent.

"Kill her, Cato! Just kill her, Cato!" Clove's impatience over my wanted demise makes her jump up and down like some kind of little imp.

When Cato is about five feet up, there is a sharp CRACK as the branch he rests on gives out from under him. He tumbles to the earth, swearing like a fiend as he embarrassingly staggers to his feet. Whether his curses are aimed at the tree's effrontery or mine, I cannot tell.

"Oh, forget it! I'll gut her myself!" and I barely have time to register the horror over my own weapon of choice being used against me before Glimmer aims an arrow my way. Thankfully, she doesn't seem to know how to use the thing, as her projectile shoots skyward and misses me by a mile.

Even the boy from District 1, probably the most subdued member of the group after Peeta, loses his patience; he stamps his foot like a little child who has been refused a cookie. "Now what?"

"We wait her out," and the Careers turn at Peeta's outburst, visibly surprised by its assertiveness. Evidently, someone else (likely Cato) is usually charged with calling the shots. My former lover just shrugs. "I mean, she's gotta come down at some point; it's that or starve to death."

His suggestion is approved, if only tepidly, and the Careers begin to gather firewood. Peeta lingers for only a moment, gazing up at me in the tree before nodding his head once.

The gesture is so surprising, I forget to glower at him. But this second silent signal, plus the look in his eyes, leaves me confused. What does he think he's playing at? What are his motives, allowing the Careers to hunt me down? I thought I had the answer based on last night's small slaughter, but now I'm not so sure. All I can do is anchor myself to the tree again as night falls.

* * *

When I wake up the next morning, I nearly slip off my branch when I spy a pair of eyes - _human_ eyes - observing me from the tree just next to mine. As I peer closer, I realize the eyes belong to Rue, the little girl from District 11 who is like Prim except for darker skin. Seeing she has my attention, she points down.

I follow her gaze. Below, the Career's fire is nearly out, its last smoky tendrils mingling with the early morning mist. What is more, every single one of them is asleep, even Peeta, who was apparently supposed to take watch per Cato's orders.

My eyes return to Rue's. Now she's pointing up. Once again, I follow along, this time observing a nest of tracker jackers.

And with just two silent motions, Rue has helped to form a plan in my head. I have the knife from Clove's attack at the start of the Games! Cut the nest free with it, and the tracker jackers will fall right on the Careers and their camp.

Silently, I go out onto a limb - literally. The one with the nest on it. Working as quietly as I can, I begin to saw the nest away from the branch.

As the morning grows later, I can sense the Careers beginning to stir. Come on... come on... I'm almost done! I pause for the briefest instant near the end of my task and look down to Peeta's dozing form. Unbidden, a thought of regret appears. _Peeta, I'm sorry_.

I cut the branch free. The nest plunges to the earth and shatters open upon impact, the tracker jackers attacking the first things it sees as responsible for disturbing their home.

Screams split the air as the Careers awaken and blindly try to evade the surprise attack. They make for the lake that lies in the distance near the Cornucopia. But not all of them get the chance. The tracker jacker's stings claim two lives: Glimmer and the girl from 4.

The camp now deserted and my path clear, I jump from the tree. Seeing that Glimmer's bloated corpse is still clutching the bow, I work to pry it free from her grasp before the hovercrafts come to collect the dead.

Unfortunately, such a task leaves me vulnerable to lingering tracker jackers. I get stung once, then again. I finally work the bow and arrows into my hands just as a third sting finds its mark.

As I begin to stumble away, I hear cries.

"Katniss, go!" Peeta is suddenly in front of me. "What are you doing? Get out of here, go! I'll come find you!"

What does he mean, he'll come find me? But I cannot voice this, for Peeta suddenly takes me in his arms and kisses me full on the mouth.

"MMMMMMMMM!" Remembering that I am supposed to hate him for his betrayal, I squeal in outrage at his advance. I would slap his face, but something seems to have gone wrong with my one arm thanks to the tracker jacker venom.

My other arm is fine, though. I could... kiss him back... then maybe... knife him...

Before I get the chance, Peeta releases me and pushes me into the trees. My opportunity gone and already feeling weak, I stagger away as quick as I can. My head feels like it's roaring, and only one clear thought stays in my mind: a recollection of commentary by Caesar Flickerman, from a previous Hunger Games. Wait... there he is now, strolling blithely through the trees! How is he in the arena?

"Not only are tracker jacker stings filled with poisonous venom, they also induce powerful hallucinations..."


	13. Here Comes the Boom

**Chapter 13: Here Comes the Boom**

When I awaken, I am surprised to find my arms and legs covered in leaves. Not just covered... pasted to my skin...

I survey my surroundings. A small fire is going just off to one side. And next to me...

I smile in relief, for it is my little helper. Rue. Somehow, I know she won't hurt me.

She must think that, though. Despite my clearly vulnerable position, she scrambles away from me in fear when she sees I'm awake.

"It's OK," I reach out with a smile. "I'm not gonna hurt you."

Remembering that I still have some leftover rabbit from my first day in the arena, I share it with the little girl to earn her trust. She inhales the thing, evidently not having had a decent meal in days.

"How long was I out?" I ask, as she eats.

"Couple of days," she shrugged. "I changed your leaves twice."

I am impressed by her resourcefulness in healing; it's almost as good as my mother's. Also, if I really was out for as long as she says, it's a miracle none of the other tributes came across us.

That reminds me... "Anyone else die?"

She nods. "The boy from 10."

I don't remember much about that tribute, only that he had a crippled leg. How many of us are left? I am still too weak to even bother trying to count.

"Is all of that true?" Rue's sudden question startles me.

"What?"

She smirks conspiratorially. "You and him." And she makes kissy faces.

I smile in amusement, for once again, she reminds me so much of my sister. Even before I met Peeta, Prim would tease me constantly about boys. It was a rather foolish notion then, because I had never been particularly open to making friends, girls or guys, much less forming a romantic relationship. I had never even planned to marry, though Prim once shocked me by telling me I was quite the beauty of our District, and that men would likely try to court me as a suitor. At that time, I had laughed off such a claim as ridiculous, but then I met Peeta... and once we became romantically involved, Prim's teasing became newly justified.

As for the little girl standing before me now, I decide to play coy by not answering. I turn the tables by volleying a question of my own back to her. "So where are Cato and the others?"

As I predicted, Rue readily has the answer: "They've got all their supplies down by the lake. It's piled up in this great big pyramid."

I grin. "That sounds... tempting," teasing her as a big sister would.

* * *

We huddle together for warmth that night, but don't find sleep. We are too busy hashing out the final details of our plan. At first light, I commission Rue with finding plenty of firewood and other underbrush, and by mid-morning we have enough kindling to light three rather large, controlled burns.

"OK, I'm going to spy on their camp. Light the first fire, then head up north, light the second. Do the same thing with the third. I'll meet you at the last fire."

"But how will we now each of us is OK?" Rue wonders. Then, she answers her own question. "I have an idea. Repeat after me."

She whistles a four-note tune. After a moment, the mockingjays in the area copy it. "Now you try."

I obey, and the mockingjays sing it back.

"Whistle that when you're at their camp so I'll know to light the first fire," Rue instructs. Then she whistles another, slightly varied tune. "That means, I'm OK and we'll see each other soon."

I give her a parting hug, and head for the Career's camp. Hiding just within the treeline, I observe a new development.

Peeta is no longer with them.

I frown, and go back through all that I know. Rue did not say that she had seen Peeta's face in the sky. But would she lie, to try and protect me? Somehow, I doubt this: Rue does not seem like the kind of person who would just lie. And even if she did lie, her questioning of Peeta's and my relationship would not make sense, or at least not seem convincing.

To make up for my kills with the tracker jacker nest, and Peeta's... abandonment? Escape?... the three surviving Careers have taken on a new ally: the boy from 3. He's young, and not very big, with only a spear slung over his shoulder.

Just then, Cato shouts and points at something in the distance. Damn it! I forgot to whistle the first signal, so Rue must have just gone on ahead. Still, the slip is not fatal - I hope.

"Let's go," Cato motions to Clove and the boy from 1. "You stay here and stand guard," he says to the boy from 3.

"But what about Lover Boy?"

"I'm telling you, forget about him - I know where I cut him. Now, move!" And the Careers sprint off to the other side of the clearing, towards the fire in the distance.

I try not to let myself become overcome with distress. It's both amazing and disturbing how much intelligence I have gathered just from Cato's big fat mouth alone. At some point after my attack and subsequent flight, Cato must have attacked and critically injured Peeta.

But why? Did Peeta try and desert? Wait... he helped me get out of that mess with the tracker jackers. Did Cato become aware of this, and deem it an act of betrayal? And if so, what does that mean for Peeta? What does that mean for... us? I have the strangest feeling that my narrative explaining Peeta's alliance with the Careers has been turned completely on its head.

Even more frightening, Cato's throwaway comment of _'forget about him'_ seems to imply that he thinks my lover is not long for this world.

My musings are interrupted when I see a new figure approach the camp. She has long red hair, and a furtive countenance about her. A flashback to the interviews strikes me. It's the sly, elusive girl from District 5! I think I had nicknamed her Foxface at one point.

As I watch with intrigue, she approaches the pyramid of supplies. Without even pausing, she begins to hop around, moving closer and closer to the pile. When she reaches the stash, she seizes a backpack and completes the weird, interpretive dance perfectly in reverse before vanishing into the trees.

What was that all about? Whatever that girl did was clearly a pattern, something she either observed or learned. And why would a pile of supplies be just sitting there, if someone could pick-pocket from it so easily?

Then, the answer comes to me.

"It's mined," I whisper. This new twist neatly explains the participation of the boy from 3. Their district is filled with technology experts. He probably bartered for his life by digging up the landmines under the tribute pedestals for Cato, then replanting them around the stash. No wonder Cato left such a tiny guy like him as a guard! With that kind of firepower, the Careers don't even need one!

Fortunately, I know mines well, since my father made his living from them and died in one. And I am not here to steal supplies, as Foxface did.

I'm here to destroy supplies.

Notching an arrow to my bow, I take aim at a bag of apples hanging off the hoard. With one clean shot, I slice open the bag so that the fruit tumbles out...

Right onto the waiting landmines.

KABOOM! The blast knocks me off my feet and deeper into the trees. When I come out of my dazed state a moment later, what was once the arena's supply is now a pile of ash.

I wonder if I inadvertently killed the boy from 3 as well? But, no, he was thrown backwards by the explosion too, in shock but alive.

If I were him, though, I wouldn't want to be.

Indeed, the commotion must have summoned the Careers back. They come running, Cato raving like a lunatic and placing his blame squarely on the boy from 3. Sheer emotion overrules all rational thought, as Cato snaps the boy's neck in less than an instant. There goes the cannon.

I don't still know how many of us live, but I know that there are not that many candidates whom Cato could logically deduce as being the culprit. He'll know this was my doing. I have to get out of here!

I lightly jog through the trees, putting as much distance between myself and my enemies as possible. I am just calming down and wondering what on earth is wrong with my left ear, when a cry clearly reverberates through the other.

"KATNISS! HELP!"

I run blindly through the trees, calling for Rue. Something went awry with the plan, I know it! Finally, I come upon the site of the third burn, the fire unlit - and Rue caught in a net. Using Clove's knife, I cut her free and gather her into my arms as a mother would her baby.

"Ssssh... sssssshhhh... it's OK..."

"Katniss!"

Something whistles towards us and I don't even think. I leap to the side and fire an arrow into the stomach of the boy from 1. He stumbles back one step in surprise before dropping to the ground. Upon hearing his cannon, I turn back to comfort Rue.

But she's staring at me in stunned silence, a spear impaled in her chest. She keels over and I catch her before she hits the earth.

"You're OK... you're OK..." I choke out through quickly-gathering tears, even though she's anything but.

"Did you blow up the food?" she whispers.

I nod. "Every bit of it."

"You have to _win_ ," her voice hissing with great intensity for one so small. "Will you sing?"

She knows she's dying. Worse, she knows I can do nothing to help her cling to life. So, all I can do is obey what will be her final wish, and sing the song I always used as a lullaby for my sister. Just after I reach the final chorus, her cannon sounds.

Racked with grief and guilt, I begin to adorn Rue's body in flowers. Once done, I turn my face skyward and give District 12's traditional three-fingered salute. Somehow, somewhere, a camera will pick up on it.

And I walk away.


	14. Together Again

**Chapter 14: Together Again**

It takes me more than a day to get over Rue's death. Periodically, I just sit amongst the trees and cry. I don't even think about what would happen if another tribute crossed me in such a pathetic state, only that I would probably be an easy kill.

On what I judge to be the tenth, eleventh day of the Games (it's a rough guesstimate, I know, as I was unconscious for some of it), I hear announcer Claudius Templesmith's voice boom throughout the landscape.

"Attention, tributes, attention: there's been a slight... rule change. The Gamemakers have decreed that two Victors may be crowned if they originate from the same district. May the odds be ever in your favor."

"Peeta!" I instantly gasp. The rule change reinvigorates me with a new sense of purpose, as I now search frantically for my boyfriend.

Thank goodness I made my livelihood as a hunter. With my tracking skills honed over years of practice, I manage to unearth a trail of blood leading back towards where the Careers found me in the river days before. Sure enough, I reach the body of water and the rocky landscape surrounding it, but it is here the trail goes cold.

No matter what shape he's in, Peeta must be somewhere in this area.

All at once, something grabs at my ankle and I leap back in shock. Only to discover...

"Oh my gosh, Peeta!"

I forget that I should be mad at him, forget that I had declared our relationship dead - an extra casualty of this arena. Digging my boyfriend out from his camouflaged hiding place, I take him in my arms. I kiss his lips again and again, quickly running out of air, but I don't stop. Peeta manages to offer a weak greeting amidst my peppering him.

"Peeta, why don't you hold me?" I whimper, my euphoria at finding him alive momentarily clouding my judgement.

He chuckles. "I kinda can't, sweetheart."

"Oh!" I spring back and finally get a good look at him.

He looks worse - _far_ worse - than I envisioned or than Cato even alluded to. A huge gash runs high up his left leg, cutting through the pant fabric as though it is paper.

The healing lessons I learned from my mother quickly take over. Trying to remember what Rue did to heal the burn on my leg, I gather leaves and crush them in the river water to make the same kind of paste, which I then meticulously apply to Peeta's wound. Peeta just silently observes me.

"Gah! That stings!" he growls at one point. "It's bad, huh?"

"It's gonna be fine," I brush him away. I should not be so cavalier; he knows me well enough to know when I'm bullshitting.

"Katniss..."

"Shush."

"Katniss..."

"No!" I snap. "I'm not gonna leave you. I'm not gonna do that!"

He stares at me for a moment before asking, "Why not?"

I am well aware of what he's really asking. He knows as well as I do that he betrayed me by teaming up with the Careers. He knows it will take a lot to return to what we had, and odds are we may never. He is wondering what _we_ are now.

I don't answer. I can't. So instead, I return to my work. When I finally succeed in getting Peeta to stand, I support him as he hobbles us away from the river.

We encounter no one as we return to the underbrush, and as night begins to fall, we discover a cool and damp cave that is well secluded. It will suit our purposes nicely. Until Peeta has recovered, we will hide here, maybe even outlast a tribute or two, if we're lucky.

* * *

Later that evening, a parachute from a sponsor comes. Peeta is elated, mentioning it's the first parachute he's ever received. I'm elated to think that it's medicine - until I realize it isn't that at all, only soup. Still, food is better than nothing. I give him a few initial spoonfuls.

"Thanks," he rasps. He sounds dehydrated. I hope the water supplies in the arena hold, or some canteens from a sponsor are on the way.

I shrug. "Well, you fed me once."

I had earlier found a sleeping bag in the backpack I plucked from the Bloodbath, so Peeta and I share this and our body heat for warmth.

Besides this, our temporary, self-imposed exile gives us plenty of time to talk.

"I never meant to betray you. In fact, I got in with Cato and the rest of the clown car because I thought I could lead them away from you. The fact that we ran into you after the fireballs was pure accident. I'm so sorry."

His eyes - eyes as blue as a summer sky - convey his sincerity, and despite some lingering bitterness, I believe him.

"I forgive you." And I kiss him, our first mutually consented kiss since before the Games. I giggle when we break apart.

Peeta smirks adorably. "What?"

"It's just I'd hardly refer to the Career pack as a 'clown car.'"

Peeta chuckles right along with me. "Well, except for maybe Cato, none of them were very bright. Glimmer practically needed a guide dog - no sense of direction at all!"

I burst out laughing and he laughs with me. For a moment, it feels just like old times. A sudden thought strikes me.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"... When did you first fall in love with me?"

Peeta takes his time in answering, but not out of any deception, no, just recollection.

"It was the first day of school," he begins. "You were wearing a little red dress, and your hair..." He smiles. "It was in two braids instead of one. My father pointed you out when we were waiting to line up."

"Your father?" I gasp. "Why?"

"He says to me, 'See that little girl? I wanted to marry her mother, but she ran off with a coal miner.'"

I gape, and even find myself blushing a little. I can only imagine what my mother must be feeling, hearing this recounted on national television. "You're making that up!" I accuse, trying and failing to not sound amused.

"No, it's true. So I say, 'A coal miner? Why did she choose a coal miner if she could've had you?' And my father replied, 'Because when he sings... even the birds stop to listen.'"

Peeta's not wrong. I inherited my singing talents from my father. He was also the first person to teach me about the mockingjay's sweet song.

"Now, the singing bit becomes really important, because later that day, in music assembly, the teacher asked who knew the valley song," Peeta continues. "Your hand shot right up in the air. You sat on a stool and sang it for us and every single bird fell silent outside the window."

"Oh, please!" I laugh.

"No, it happened. And right then I knew - like my father before me - I was a goner. After that... I watched you walk home every day. _Every day_ ," he emphasizes when I stare at him in surprise. I had no idea he noticed me for that long.

Then, without missing a beat, he turns it back on me. "So, sweetheart? When did you first fall in love with me?"

I gulp, my heart pounding. "When you saved my life," I practically whisper. "When you gave me the bread. When you... made sweet love to me under that willow tree."

Peeta's eyes darken and he nods.

"I tried to fight it, Peeta, but then when you offered to risk your family's livelihood for me... I couldn't take it anymore."

"Well," Peeta smiles. "You've got me, sweetheart. Besides, it's not like I have much competition here."

I decide to be brave, and take a deep breath. "You don't have any competition anywhere: not District 12, not in the arena, and especially not in my heart."

Like before, during our first night together in his room above the bakery, something shifts. Peeta is on me in the next second, kissing me, and I am kissing him back. The warm feeling bubbles up in me again, no longer a fire of rage but a fire of love.

This fire, the one that only Peeta can give me, endows me with new bravery. Before I know fully what I am doing, I push Peeta flat on his back and boldly move to straddle him. It's a little difficult due to the constrictions of the sleeping bag, but at least it and the night will conceal us and any indecency. Wait, what am I saying? This is not indecent! This is sacred - a sacred act between man and woman to show their love for one another.

"Katniss..." I silence Peeta's whimper with a finger to his lips.

"Ssssshhhhhh..." I brazenly roll my hips into his pelvis, to make it abundantly clear what I want. He smiles with joy. Softly, I peel my jacket and undershirt from my shoulders, exposing my bare back as I lie on top of him and kiss him.

Peeta is still too weak to really do anything, so it is I who strips him of his clothes. _I_ guide his manliness into my dripping wet vagina. _I_ bounce up and down on his penis so as to kindle the flame inside me, building it until it blazes out of control.

"Uhhhhhh... Ohhhhhhhhhhh... Mmmmmmmmmmm... Huhhhh... Peeta..." I moan, throwing my head back, my eyes bulging as they gasp for breath. "Oh my... ohhhhh my goodness... Peeta!"

His name comes out in a sigh, even as my orgasm explodes all around me. I sink my body onto his chest, and with a contented purr, I move no more.

* * *

It is Peeta's slick skin which first awakens me to a new day in our little cave. I stir against him with a smile. I know I am naked, sunlight from outside just managing to kiss the valley of my bare breasts.

My happiness does not stay for long, though, and I suddenly want to kill not a tribute, but Claudius Templesmith, as his sudden voice so audaciously interrupts us.

"Attention, tributes, attention: commencing at sunrise, there will be a Feast tomorrow at the Cornucopia. Each of you needs something - desperately. And we plan to be... generous hosts."

I reach the conclusion immediately. "Your medicine."

"You're not going to go," Peeta squashes my still-forming plan in the next instant. I know he harbors more concern over the threat of other tributes to me than even over his own health.

"Yeah? Well, you need it, and you can't walk. We barely got you here as it is." As a couple, we've bantered like this before, but the stakes have never, _never_ been as high as they are now.

"Katniss, you're not going to risk your life for me; I'm not gonna let you!" and he grabs at my bow to stop me from completing getting dressed.

"You would do it for me... wouldn't you?" my voice and gaze softening on the last two words.

Peeta just stares at me, baffled. "Why are you doing this?"

My gaze and resolve both harden, but they don't mask the tenderness I feel as I swoop down on my lover and kiss him. My message is silent but clear.

_Because I love you._

When we break apart, Peeta beholds me with a new adoration. "Now there's no way I'm letting you go." His resolve is just as hard as mine, and there's no beating it.

"Peeta," I sigh.

"Please. Stay."

I now want to hit myself. Did I really have to make him beg? Not for sex, certainly, but... no, focus. This is one fight I cannot win... at least not yet. So I cede to my true love's wishes. For now. Silently, I curl up next to him.

Peeta's condition only gets worse as morning turns into afternoon. He begins to break out into a fever - a fever that I cannot treat with nature's gifts alone. Worse, he begins to eat less and less of the soup until I have to placate him with a kiss for every spoonful.

This isn't working. That medicine which I am sure will be waiting in the Cornucopia is the only thing that can save him. And I will not lose my sweet love after I've just gotten him back.

While Peeta takes an afternoon doze, I slip out of the cave and scavenge a short distance away until I find what I am looking for: berries. This particular kind contains a kind of syrup that, when mixed in water, can put a person to sleep. My mother has often used it on patients when Capitol anesthesia from the District 12 apothecary has run low. I mix the syrup in the water of a stream, then return to the cave and wake Peeta.

"I thought this might be a nice change from all the soup." I urge him on with a kiss, and he eventually begins to drink the sweetened water.

"It's sweet," he ponders. "Almost sugary."

"Yes, they're sugar berries," I lie, kissing him again to get him to drink more. He's almost had enough...

"No, not sugary, it tastes like... syrup. Syrup." His eyes widen.

I move fast, forcing his mouth closed so that he has no choice but to swallow. And there he goes, dragged under. But only for a little while. I'll hear about this later, I'm sure.

That is, if I can survive the Feast that awaits me.


	15. A Girlfriend's Duty

**Chapter 15: A Girlfriend's Duty**

The sun is just beginning to rise by the time I reach the edge of the treeline just beyond the clearing that holds the Cornucopia. At what must be sunrise, a table suddenly rises out of the earth. On it lie four backpacks, each marked with a very significant number. _District_ numbers.

One on the far left is marked with a "2" - probably meant for Cato and Clove. The one farthest right is marked with a "12" - for me and Peeta. Between these lies a "5" backpack, for -

Foxface! Just as I begin to emerge from the edge of the clearing and make for the table, there she goes, right out of the mouth of the Cornucopia. In moments, she has seized her pack and is making a clean break for the woods. I know now that I have to get to Peeta's and my backpack before...

The table is feet from me, when a flash of black rounds the other side of the horn. A silver blade is thrown, which I barely manage to dodge, and I ready my bow. But I can't set it up in time; Clove does not let me. She bullrushes me, tackles me to the ground. Her knife from earlier is in my pocket where I cannot get to it quickly, especially in such a compromising position. My last line of defense is to bite, kick and shriek as we roll over and over the same patch of grass. God, we're such _girls_.

At last, we end up with Clove on top of me. All I've gotta say is, I like it a lot better when it is Peeta who's straddling me. The sadistic girl's knife is at my throat.

"What's in the backpack, Twelve? Medicine for your boyfriend?"

I am floored as to how she might know this, until I remember that her district partner is why my boyfriend needs the medicine in the first place.

"Oh, I see! You were gonna help him, right? Oh, that's sweet. Shame you'll end up just like your friend. What was her name? Rue?" She goads me even as I growl in rage and try to buck her off me. "Oh, yeah, we killed her. And now... we're gonna kill you." She traces my face with her knife.

But it turns out that's all she gets to do.

Clove's weight is suddenly, violently, removed from me. Next second, there's a bang which indicates something or someone has hit the Cornucopia. When I manage to raise my head, I realize why:

A hulking, black male has unexpectedly come to my rescue. Now it is Clove's turn to be pinned, this time up against the great metal horn.

My memory comes back to me. The fourth backpack on the table was marked with an "11." And since Rue is dead...

Her district partner, Thresh. I haven't seen him since before the Games, but his presence now informs me there are only six of us left in the arena.

And he is now interrogating Clove with the relentlessness of a Peacekeeper.

"You said you killed her?" he bellows.

"No!"

"I heard you!"

As all of this is going on, I think back to a comment Peeta made to me recounting his experiences with the Careers. Regarding Clove, he'd had this to say: _"She's a compulsive liar. Always makes herself out to be better than she actually is, even if she has to deny reality to do it."_

And that is exactly what's happened here. Clove bold-face lied to me when she said "we" (presumably meaning her and Cato) _'killed her.'_ She must suspect I see through this; that I know it was actually the boy from 1 who killed my friend.

Unfortunately for Clove, Thresh doesn't know that. Now caught in a trap largely of her own making, Clove begins to panic.

"Cato! CATO!"

"You said her name! YOU SAID HER NAME!"

I can't watch. Not as Thresh bashes Clove's brains out against the horn in a fit of rage that makes Cato's physical rantings seem benign. He slams her body against it again and again, until she finally drops into my line of vision, dead from blunt-force trauma.

All at once, Thresh rounds on me. He saved me from Clove, sure, but I don't know if I would have wanted to be killed by her earlier or by him now. Instead, however, he points a finger the size of a salami at me.

"Just this time, Twelve! For Rue."

And seizing both his and Cato's backpacks, he disappears into an unfamiliar part of the arena with only a single glance back.

I know Cato will be coming for Clove's body, so I waste no time grabbing my own pack still on the table and hightailing it out of there. As I run, I am able to process what I just endured.

Thresh actually saved my life. And in the bargain, he took out a significant opponent for me. Clearly, he took Clove's word to be truth even though it wasn't truth at all, and must have decided her death was of higher priority than mine.

But why would he do even this, though? Kill Clove, but then spare my life? Obviously, he heard Clove's whole yarn, including her reference to Rue as my 'friend'... yet he doesn't know the whole story. Of how Rue and I were allies and I saved her from the District 1 boy. I never got to give my side of it.

What is more, Thresh took Cato's backpack in addition to his own. Was this another blessing in disguise? Does Thresh figure that the contents of that backpack outweigh any desire by Cato to see me dead? Does he think he can lead Cato away from me, just as Peeta was trying to do with the whole Career pack from the start?

I'm beginning to think that there is an element of chance to the arena. Not a lot, mind you, but some. The boy from Nine being knifed instead of me. The girl from Eight and her fire being discovered instead of me in the tree. Marvel spearing Rue, but not me, before I killed him. And now, Clove's death. In these games of chance, I have always come out alive. I hope my streak holds.

* * *

By the time I return to the cave, Peeta is still asleep, but beginning to stir. I immediately open the backpack and retrieve the medicine, figure out how to administer it, and inject the substance into Peeta's leg. It's my last ounce of energy before I pass out from sheer exhaustion.

When I come to, Peeta is actually sitting up, eyeing me with a stern expression. Yet his eyes are twinkling.

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty. Or should I say, afternoon."

I sit up. "You're better."

" _Much_ better. Whatever you shot me up with did the trick. By lunchtime, almost all the swelling in my leg was gone."

I smirk. "Told you it was worth it." A pause. "Do you forgive me for tricking you?"

"I'm getting around to it. But for future reference..." and here he finally breaks character. "Don't do something like that again."

I laugh, and even though Peeta claims to be reserving judgment, I can tell all is forgiven.

Once I find us a decent meal a short ways away, I tell Peeta all about what happened at the Feast. He seems just as baffled as to why Thresh would let me go, but does not bother to offer any theories. Mostly, he's just relieved that Clove is out of the way.

"We could go home, you know. Both of us, because of the rule change. We're the only district team left."

Peeta smiles a boyish smile. "We could go home." And we embrace.

* * *

The medicine helps Peeta make nearly a full recovery. He manages to walk again independently, though with a slight limp. As soon as he is able, we leave our cave sanctuary together for the first and ultimately last time. Peeta has gotten it in his mind that, since we are so close to the end, we can work together and hunt down our last competition one by one until we are the final two alive.

"Cato will be by the Cornucopia. He's not going to go someplace he doesn't know, or that doesn't give him some semblance of power. Even with all the supplies gone, the horn is pretty imposing," Peeta rationalizes, as we wade our way across a stream. "We know Thresh went off into that unknown part of the arena - I think it might be wheat fields. It's too dangerous to go in after him on his home turf; we'll have to draw him out."

"Foxface?"

At the mention of the girl from 5, Peeta throws up his hands. "Sweetheart, she could be anywhere!"

I laugh at his exasperation.


	16. The Finale, Redux

**Chapter 16: The Finale, Redux**

We go exploring, probing mile by mile into wider and wider perimeters beyond our former home of the cave. But there are no signs of Cato, Foxface, or Thresh.

"Let's hunt," I suggest, readying my bow.

"Now? But I'm not that hungry," Peeta protests like a small child.

I am sure the audience in the Capitol is getting a kick out of that. This is the Hunger Games, after all. But I know better. His fever may have gone away thanks to the medicine, but his lack of appetite is taking its own time clearing out. I can't force-feed him with sweet talk and kisses forever. If Peeta doesn't want to starve to death, we'll have to win, and soon.

My boyfriend finally relents. "All right, I'll take the bow."

I stare at him, horrified. For a moment, I wonder if he would turn on me with it and kill me. But Peeta flashes a grin. "I'm just kidding. I'll go do some gathering."

Splitting up - even momentarily - turns out to be a nearly fatal mistake. I have just made a catch of squirrel when I hear a BOOM.

That was a cannon. Someone is dead. Oh no...

"PEETA!" I run as blindly through the trees as I did for Rue - so long, in fact, that I nearly jump out of my skin when I collide with another body.

It's Peeta. Despite his being very much alive, I burst into tears. "I heard the cannon..." Then I see what's in his hand and my crying turns angry. "THAT'S NIGHTLOCK, PEETA!" slapping away the berries that are a cousin of the sleeping ones I gave him. "You'd be dead in a minute! You scared me to death! Damn you..."

I melt into his arms, Peeta consoling me with "I'm sorry's" and "I didn't know's."

We are now down to four. One more tribute is dead. But if it wasn't Peeta and obviously wasn't me, then who _was_ it?

* * *

"I didn't know she was following me," Peeta admits honestly, as we stare almost sadly at the corpse of Foxface, her lips stained not with blood, but with berry juice. "I should have been more careful - on all counts."

I nod. "Yes, you should have. Obviously, she was tailing you and thought you might have something she could steal. Trouble for her is, she picked the wrong thing to swipe. She's very clever, Peeta. Or she was. Until you outfoxed her."

"And she was also probably our easiest target to take out, at least physically," Peeta huffs, stretching as he begins to pace, planning our next move. "Thresh and Cato will be much tougher nuts to break open." He pauses, then cracks a smile. "I guess it's too much to hope that they simultaneously destroy each other?"

I bite my lip, shaking my head. "If for some reason we don't win, Peeta... I hope Thresh does." Arena or not, I feel that I owe him for saving my life.

"Then let's hope Cato kills him, so we don't have to," Peeta replies grimly.

We continue our trek, maintaining a direction towards the Cornucopia even though it was never planned beforehand. But something is off. The sky is getting darker earlier. _Too_ early. Especially for the middle of summer. Peeta notices this as well.

"Why's it so dark all of a sudden?"

"Gamemakers probably want to end this just as much as we do," I guess bluntly.

"AHHHHHHHHHH!" The male scream, followed by a cannon, nearly makes me jump into Peeta's arms. I don't need the sky to tell me who it was, for I have heard Cato scream, and it doesn't sound like that.

"What is it?" Peeta wonders.

I stare at him, my face weighed down by depressing emotions as I announce, "It's the finale."

And indeed it is. Mutated dogs that probably ensured Thresh's demise burst out of the underbrush behind us. My lover and I run for our lives, Peeta keeping surprisingly good pace with me despite his still-weakened leg. Before either of us know it, we have burst from the edge of the woods and are charging for the Cornucopia. Climbing it might be our only chance. I see no sign of Cato, our final enemy, but even if he does come, I hope we are ready for him.

Always the perfect gentleman, even under duress, Peeta gives me a boost up the horn first. He is partially through his ascent after me when the mutts reach us, biting and clawing at his weaker leg. I grab onto my boyfriend's arms and yank, dragging him the last several feet to the top and out of the cursed dogs' reach.

And we _still_ aren't done yet.

Cato comes out of seemingly nowhere, knocking me to the floor of the horn. Like with Clove, he gets up on top of me, only now he tries to choke me to death. In fact, he is bending me back towards the dogs' teeth that are just beyond our reach. Peeta bravely counter-attacks without mercy, tackling Cato and throwing him back and away from me. Even with my boyfriend's injury, I can't help but admire him as he manages to give Cato a pretty good pummeling. _He's so strong..._

Cato throws Peeta off and makes for me again, only to be intercepted again. This gives me enough time to get to my feet and ready an arrow.

I am glad I am poised and prepared to strike, for when I look up, Cato has Peeta in a chokehold. For the first time, I get a good look at the last of the Careers.

Firstly, he looks worse than I expected: split lip, with a trail of dried blood running from it. His hair looks disheveled. There are clear bags under his eyes.

Secondly, for someone who wants to be crowned Victor, Cato looks... resigned.

"Go on, little lady, shoot," he goads. "Then we both go down and you win."

No deal. If anyone is going down, it is Cato, and Cato only. But his egging me on gives me pause. If I do shoot him, he very well could drag my lover down with him...

"Go on," Cato pressures, as if he is begging. Then he says something rather shocking: "I'm dead anyway."

Cato's curtain call - if that's how we want to define it - now balloons into an exercise in theatre of the absurd. He even starts monologuing, laughing as he does so. But not at me. Nor at Peeta. At _himself_.

"I always was, right? I didn't know that till now. That's it, is that what they want? Huh?" And he screams this to the heavens, to the audience just beyond our sight that he knows is hanging on his every word. Because this is the end of the Hunger Games, and the audience expects a show.

I nearly drop my weapon. Never, in the history of this event, have I heard of a Career appearing to openly provoke the Capitol. Careers are supposed to love the Games; Hell, they think that killing other people's children actually _is_ a game.

Not Cato, though. At least not anymore. No doubt seeing my surprise at his likely deranged behavior, he lets out something between a "Huh?" and a chortle, a sick grin on his face. His grip on Peeta tightens; the blond monster seems to be remembering himself again.

"I could still do this... I could still do this..." but he seems to be talking himself into it more than me. "One more kill. It's the only thing I know how to do. Bring pride to my district... Not that it matters."

As Cato waxes loquacious on topics bordering the philosophical, I notice Peeta tapping the hand that traps him with his index finger.

One last silent message. One last signal. _Shoot here_.

And I do. As soon as my arrow finds its mark, Peeta breaks free, and hurls Cato almost over his head. The Career bounces limb over limb off the edge of the Cornucopia to the waiting mutts below.

Peeta and I hold each other in a tight embrace, kiss, glance fearfully down every once in a while to check our progress on Cato's elongated, bloody end. When our subdued rival begins to literally plead for death, I can't take it anymore, and promptly fire an arrow into his temple. The cannon sounds, calling the mutts away and halting their plunder.

The sun now rises a few hours too early over the Cornucopia, and Peeta and I slide down the horn to safety. It's over. We have made history, going farther than any of Haymitch's protégés. For the first time in 24 years, District 12 is guaranteed a victor - two of them!

Then, I hear Templesmith's voice.

"Attention, tributes, attention: there's been a slight... rule change. The previous rule change, claiming that two tributes from the same district could win has been... revoked. Only one Victor may be crowned. Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor."

I see everything clearly now. They never intended for two tributes to win. They only twisted it to go for broke, gamble for the most epic ending in Hunger Games history. And like fools, Peeta and I bought into it.

"Go ahead." I turn to see Peeta facing me, a sad smile on his face and with no weapon in his hand. "One of us has to die. They have to have their Victor."

Can I do it? Kill my love? My Peeta? No, I will die first! And so would he, if our roles were switched.

This, and Peeta's comment, gives me an idea. My grief turns to rage - rage at the Capitol, rage at the Games. I throw down my bow. "No. They don't. Why should they?" The last comes out almost melodramatically.

Remembering how I kept the Nightlock berries, in the hope that they might be useful against Cato later, I pour some into Peeta's hand, then fill my own.

He stares. "Together?"

I nod. "Together."

He kisses me, his smile tender. "One."

"Two," I follow.

"Three," we echo.

"Stop! STOP!" Templesmith sounds unusually panicked. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the winners of the 74th Annual Hunger Games."

Dropping the berries, Peeta and I embrace and kiss. We don't stop until the hovercraft comes to pick us up.


	17. Village Life

**Chapter 17: Village Life**

**Peeta's POV**

It is deathly silent on the high-speed train ride back from the Capitol to District 12, in the dining car. It is fortunate that I have been reclining in my lounge chair when Lucy Gray delivers the news; otherwise, I may have gone collapsing to the ground.

Katniss, my girlfriend, has her mouth dropped open in shock. Coming out of her stupor, she begins shaking her head in disbelief. Denial.

"No... No! My grandmother was Maude Ivory Everdeen! She was the first female Miner Foreman!"

Lucy Gray merely cocks an eyebrow. "Do you know what Maude's maiden name was?"

Katniss gulps, fearing the answer. "Baird," she guesses in a whisper.

Lucy Gray nods heavily. "We were cousins," she explains. Sighing, she begins her story: "Not long after the 33rd Games... I came home from the Capitol to discover that I was pregnant with your father. For the next year, I was able to hide up in my mansion and deliver the baby to term. I gave birth all alone on my kitchen floor; no one ever knew. I knew that if anyone found out who your father was to me, he would be Reaped for the arena the moment he turned 12."

Lucy Gray is certainly right about that: children, even grandchildren of Victors have rigged many a Reaping. But no direct descendant of a Victor has ever become Victor in his/her own right... I chance a glance at my beautiful Katniss.

Until now.

"So, I took the baby to the Community Home in the dead of night and left it on the front steps, putting it up for adoption. Then, I sent Maude Ivory and her new husband - Boxwood Everdeen - to the home immediately afterwards and made sure they adopted the baby called Yarrow. Your Grammaude raised your father like he was her own; I had to content myself with watching from afar."

Tears are streaming down Katniss's face, her teeth set in an enraged sneer. "Some grandmother you were," she spits. "Where were you, five years ago when Daddy was killed in the mines? We were starving!"

Lucy Gray hangs her head in shame. "I am sorry about that. Sadly, there wasn't much I could do. A Victor favoring a struggling Seam family would have been regarded by the Capitol as very, _very_ suspicious. If the Capitol or Snow had gotten wind that you were my grandchild, they would have gone for either you or Prim, to be Reaped. Course, it happened that way anyway."

Haymitch now steps in. "Don't be so hard on your grandmother, Katniss. Some of her absence is my fault, especially after your father died. That was the year Annie Cresta won her Games, and the entire arena flooded. It was awful; I was drinking much more heavily than usual. Lucy Gray had to look after me. But she did what she could - even left an anonymous gift at your house, as I recall."

I remember Katniss telling me a story, back when we first started seeing each other, about finding a gift basket full of fruits and cheeses on her back step when she was about 12 years old. She had always wondered who it was.

I have hope that a little detail like this might be what finally breaks the ice, and can allow a family reunion. Unfortunately, I know my Katniss - she is still so angry. Her eyes flash dangerously, and I can't help but marvel at how beautiful she still is, even when she is enraged. I have been on the receiving end of her legendary temper a time or two, and let me tell you, it isn't fun.

"Katniss, dear -"

"Don't call me that!" Katniss snaps, stalking for the train car exit with her nose in the air.

"Katniss Magenta Everdeen! Now you listen here right this minute!"

Lucy Gray's voice is the sharpest I have ever heard it. Katniss has grown deathly still, turning around slowly. I expect her to be so apoplectic, that I begin to fear for our oldest mentor's life. Instead, I find tears swimming in my girl's gorgeous grey eyes. "Don't call me that," she whimpers, sounding like a small child. "I hate my full name. It's..."

"Breathtaking," I insert for her. She jumps, turning to me. I just smile. "Was that what you were going to say?"

I am heartened when she lets out a little snort through her nose. "No. I'm just grateful that Prim's is far worse. Daddy picked out our middle names; it's tradition that we are partially named after a color. My sister is Primrose Cyan."

"Ah, yes," Lucy Gray bobs her head. "That was always the way with the Covey."

"Covey?" Both Katniss and I ask simultaneously. I have never heard the name before.

"The old ways. In the early years of Panem, people were free to move from district to district whenever they liked. When I was a little girl, I emigrated to what eventually became known as Twelve with my family, who were all part of a musical troupe called the Covey. We would perform in the black market that would one day be known as the Hob almost every weekend. Part of the reason I was Reaped for the 10th Games was because of how lovely I used to sing." She dips her head to Katniss. "You inherited that singing voice, my dear. So did your father, as I understand it."

Katniss's eyes are shimmering with tears again. At last, she gets out in a whisper, "What do you want from me?"

Lucy Gray is not nearly as offended by the question as I imagine she would be. She merely graces her granddaughter with a crinkly, loving smile. "I won't ask you to forgive me. But I would be ever so grateful if you would accept me. Perhaps one day call me your Grandmama. That is as much as I will hope for right now."

I am shocked when I see Katniss nod meekly, before choking down a sob and fleeing for the rear train car. I ponder the old warrior battle-axe sitting before me. A Victor who gave up her child right under the Capitol's nose. A Victor who watched her eldest granddaughter get Reaped and then helped where she could to guide her out of the arena alive - again, right under the Capitol's nose. It is both awe-inspiring and overwhelming.

The train is slowing to a stop and I can hear the defeaning roars from our neighbors even from round the last bend before reaching Donner Train Station.

"I'll go fetch Katniss," I rise from my chair.

My girlfriend is still curled into herself when I find her, and I let her lean into me as we join our two mentors in front of the hydraulic doors. When they open, hands seize us and pull us into the crowd. I release Katniss so that she can melt into her mother and sister's arms with a cry. Rye and Leven, my older brothers, pick me up as though I weigh nothing. Dad lets out a strangled shout of jubilation, clapping me on the shoulder.

My mom doesn't hug me - she's never been the most affectionate woman. Appraising me up and down, she finally concedes, "You've done well." I'll savor it for what it's worth, which is probably the nicest thing my mother has ever uttered to me. "Thanks, Mom."

I drift back over to Haymitch, Lucy Gray and the Everdeens. As I watch, Lucy Gray cups Mrs. Everdeen's cheek in a gesture that is almost intimate.

"Belle..." the old lady murmurs. "It's been a long time..."

Mrs. Everdeen smiles back; I think it's the first time I've ever seen Katniss's mom smile. "It sure has, Lucy Gray. Since Yarrow's and my Toasting, I believe."

Katniss whirls around, staring. "You were at my parents' wedding?!"

Lucy Gray's eyes have become glassy. "It's a long story," she chuckles. "Your mommy and daddy needed witnesses; I was available. Haymitch walked your mother down the aisle."

Katniss now looks horrified. "Oh no..." But I detect a laugh bubbling up in her.

"Belle. Primrose..." Lucy Gray pipes up. For the first time since I've known her, she appears incredibly nervous. "May I have a private word with you all once we reach your new home in the Village?"

"The Peackeepers have been moving the Mellarks' and our stuff all morning," Belle informs the woman who by all rights is actually her mother-in-law. "Why don't you join us for tea?"

Lucy Gray beams. "I'd be delighted."

"What do _we_ do?" I turn to Haymitch. He just slings an arm across my shoulders.

"Come on, Boy, let's you and I go to the Hob and have a few cold ones."

"Legal drinking age is still 21, Haymitch!" Lucy Gray casts over her shoulder as she toddles away.

"Not for new Victors, it's not!" Haymitch sing-songs back.

* * *

And so begins my new life as a Victor, in the Village. Unlike Katniss's mother and sister, my brothers and parents decline moving into my spacious mansion with me. They preferred to instead remain close to the Bakery, where I still work every day. When I'm not on the clock, I spend time over at the Everdeens' place, Katniss and I cuddling on the couch and kissing and just being together.

Our little quartet of Victors soon falls into a predictable routine. I bake. Lucy Gray gardens. Haymitch drinks until the liquor runs out, and then tries to sneak the rubbing alcohol from Mrs. Everdeen's Healing stock. Katniss hunts, just as before, making sure to set some of her kills aside for Lucy Gray. Overtime, I come to find my girlfriend more often than not on the front porch of our eldest mentor's house, listening enraptured to the stories her biological grandmother tells. I am immensely relieved and hopeful when finally, one evening, I hear Katniss call Lucy Gray, "Grandmama."

One morning, I am coming back up the hill from the Bakery, after rising early to help with the breakfast rush. Pausing at the entrance to the Village, I collect the post from our joint mailbox. I was horrified to learn, upon moving in, that Lucy Gray and Haymitch had for years been collecting their mail by simply having the poor Postmaster dump the lot on the former's porch, then dividing it amonst themselves. I guess he was scared of catching Haymitch in the middle of a booze-infused rage. So, I took it upon myself to build our Village a neighborhood mailbox, and save the Postmaster some trouble. We still have to deal out what goes to whom, but that's probably for the best: Lucy Gray is getting too old to even make it down the walk by herself, and Haymitch and Katniss are largely anti-social people, on accounts of inebriation for one, adorable shyness for the other.

When I enter the Village, I find Lucy Gray teaching both her granddaughters how to plant katniss roots. Haymitch has fallen into a liquor-induced slumber up against the Village fountain.

"Mail call!" I happily chirp, briefly halting in my cross over to Lucy Gray's garden to wake Haymitch with a swift kick to the shins. "Hey. Get up, you. Mail's here."

My fellow Victors and Prim gather around as I deal out the mail to my friends. I arrange my post last of all, shuffling through the Capitol catalogs that pretty much always end up in the wastebasket. There's a bill of summons - looks like it's from the truant officer...

"I'll take that," Haymitch plucks the document from my hands, then a second one from Katniss, before promptly ripping both up. "It's bullshit. You're Victors now, you don't need to go to school."

Katniss wrinkles her nose. "Mother won't approve of that..."

"When it comes to you and your mentoring duties, Sweetheart, your mother isn't in charge," Haymitch simply snaps back.

I turn over the final envelope in my hands before slicing it open. Sweeping the first line, my eyes brighten. "Finally! Mom's been on Rye's case to get these out..."

"What is it?" Katniss peers over my shoulder.

"Invitation to my brother and Delly Cartwright's wedding!" I grin. "We're all invited."

"We are?" Lucy Gray blinks.

I flash the opened envelope at her. "It's addressed to all of us." That's because I specifically told Rye to address it that way. Mom may not approve, but I don't care. I want all my Victor friends to come with me... and I especially want Katniss as my date. I now turn to her shyly.

"Katniss..."

"Yes?" Her voice is sweet.

"Would you do me the honor of attending Rye's wedding with me?"

Even though she probably should have expected it, my girlfriend blinks, taken aback, but pleased too. After a moment, she expresses softly, sincerely, "I'd love to."

* * *

The firelight dances across Delly's breathless face as Rye feeds her a piece of pumperknickle bread. Leaning into him, the pair share a light, tender kiss. Everyone gathered in the dining area of the bakery bursts into applause.

I've known Delly Cartwright forever; we played together as small children. And I know that ever since that time, she's had a raging crush on my second-oldest brother, Rye. Being the jokester that he is, it took my idiot brother a long time to notice, but once he did, he fell hard.

I am glad I was able to have my friends and girlfriend over to share in my brother's celebration. Though it was a little unnerving to watch a hush fall over the crowd and everyone stand aside as the Victors of District 12 entered the repurposed ceremony hall. Mom sniffed a little in disapproval at having what she would view as Seam trash at her son's party, but she wasn't in control of the guest list - Rye and Delly were.

A band composed of neighboring Merchants strikes up a lively tune, and I exubernatly lead off the dancing. My new sister-in-law stares.

"What kind of a dance is that?"

"It's call a two-step. It's really popular in the Capitol," I explain, as I continue to waltz with the air. "Of course, it always works better with a partner... come on, Lucy Gray!" And taking her in my arms, I spin the old woman around and around the room, balancing her on my toes. After a few minutes, Lucy Gray sways back into a well-placed, empty armchair, chortling.

"And that's about as far as I can go!" Casting her eyes over to where Haymitch and Katniss are laughing at our enthusiastic dancing, her eyes narrow. She directs me, her voice low, "Peeta, dear, watch him like a hawk..."

Getting her meaning, I amble over to the drinkcart, where Haymitch is regaling Katniss with a story.

"... one of my district partners in my Games was a really accomplished dancer. He was Covey, like Lucy Gray. Poor Terence Asher..."

"Your limit is three," I tell my mentor flatly. "If you go even the slightest bit over that, I'll know. Lucy Gray's orders."

The old drunk just laughs at me, but I know he'll obey. Satisfied that he won't get into too much trouble, I take Katniss's hand. "Come and dance?"

She blushes furiously, feeling shy, but nods her head, hiding a smile. As I guide her to the rapidly congealing dance floor, I think I hear moans amidst the chatter. The moans seem to be coming from the ajar door leading down into the basement storeroom.

I nod to Katniss. "Stay here." Slipping through the door's crack, I creep down the stairs. Rounding the landing, I pull up short when I see Leven, my eldest brother, thrusting frantically into his girlfriend, Daisy Courier, the Postmaster's daughter. Folded about him, Daisy is moaning piteously.

"Mmmm... Hmmmm... Huhh... Uhhh... Leven..."

I clear my throat, and the couple snaps apart. "Get dressed and get your asses upstairs before Mom catches you! It's our brother's wedding, for Panem's sake!"

Stalking back upstairs, I grab Katniss's hand, lead her onto the dance floor, and pull her close.

"What was that all about?" she searches my eyes, hands resting lightly on my chest.

"Nothing. But Leven had better keep himself decent, if you know what I mean."

Her cheeks turn pink, as her gaze sweeps the room. "I've never been to a Toasting before," she admirts quietly.

"I've been to a couple, for some of my parents' friends," I twirl her. "When I was little, I'd imagine what my Toasting would be like." I stare deeply into her entrancing eyes. "Still do, sometimes."

Katniss blooms even further red but her eyes dim. "I don't want to get married, Peeta," she confides to me in a whisper. "I want to be with you, but I don't want to get married."

I grin at her sadly. "While I would do anything to make you happy, love, I don't think the Capitol will give us much choice." Effie has been writing us with reports that the Capitol is already frantically planning the wedding of the Star-Crossed Lovers from District 12.

"Still..." Katniss sighs. "Mother was destroyed emotionally when Daddy died. There were days when she wouldn't get out of bed. I never wanted to be so attached to a person, but then I met you..." She wipes at her eyes. "Now the Capitol's taken that choice away." She peers up into my face. "But I definitely won't have children. Babies are something to love only to become something to lose at the Reaping."

I nod my head. "I understand," I tell her softly. Though I have always wanted to be a father, I know full well that any child of ours would be Reaped in a dozen, thirteen years hence. And we wouldn't be able to game the system, like Lucy Gray - a forgotten Victor giving her baby up to close family under the cover of darkness. The Capitol watches Katniss and I too closely. If I have to sacrifice my dreams for a family to protect myself and especially the woman I love, so be it.

Gray eyes solemn but shining, Katniss leans in and softly presses her lips to mine. "Thank you," she whispers tearfully.

We dance with each other all evening.


	18. Clear and Present Danger

**Chapter 18: Clear and Present Danger**

"Class, please thank Miss Baird, Mr. Abernathy, Miss Everdeen and Mr. Mellark for coming in and presenting today..." Our old teacher in Upper School leads our former classmates off in a round of applause as we Victors conclude our annual presentation for the Hunger Games History class. When Katniss and I were still in school, we both agreed that it was our least favorite subject; now, at least, there is a purpose in educating our peers about our Victory last year. Since Haymitch's win, District 12 has tried to incorporate our homeland's Games victories - sparse as they are - into the curriculum.

At least now, those Victories are something to be... grateful for, I decide on ("proud of" seems too inappropriate a pharse), as I hold Katniss's hand on our way out of the school building, for the hike across both Town and Seam, then back up the hill for home. Just ahead of us, Haymitch is hovering within arm's-reach of Lucy Gray, to catch her in case she falls on the cobblestones. At 81, our eldest mentor has needed the assistance of a cane for the better part of a decade, after a fall she took in her mansion. Katniss and I always believe it's best to let her Grandmama set the pace... even if doing so ensures that, by the time we return to Victors' Village, it is getting on dark.

The leisurely stroll gives me plenty of time to think, though. Going back to school - even just for a visit - bolstered my spirits after the Victory Tour Katniss and I just recently went through. It was an unqualified disaster. Many of the crowds we found in the neighboring districts were extremely on-edge and angry, but not at Katniss and I. No, they were angry at the system, at the Capitol, and when Peacekeepers tried to fight for control... the people fought back. Haymitch and Effie guided us as helpfully as they could; Lucy Gray stayed behind here in Twelve - the more she rested, the better off she would be - but we talked with her on the phone every night. Katniss and I quickly realized that trying to lie to her dear Grandmama wouldn't work, as Lucy Gray was watching the screens the whole time and knew exactly what was going on. My girlfriend's grandmother warned us to be careful, and we returned home at last more than a little frazzled.

Mom was pretty convinced it was because we did something wrong. In a way, I think she's right - a clump of purple berries comes to mind. "Thank Panem this year is a Quell, though," she huffed. That's right - this summer will be the 75th Hunger Games, or 3rd Quarter Quell. Quite a time to be a first-year mentor. District 12 will be receiving lots of special attention, as the 2nd Quarter Quell was the year our very own Haymitch Abernathy won the Crown. And Lucy Gray has mentored for both.

When we finally emerge over the crest of the hill leading into the Village, little Prim is pelting down the walk towards us, hugging her sister and chattering on and on about something. I adore the way Katniss's sexy gray eyes light up when her sister is telling her something - it's a look I have seen her bestow on Lucy Gray more and more lately.

"... Mama says there's mandatory programming tonight! Something about the 3rd Quarter Quell!"

"I doubt it's about that, Primrose; the Quell isn't for three months yet," I chuckle.

Lucy Gray has gotten a distant look in her eyes. "It must be the Reading of the Card," she muses. "They have to announce the twist, you know." She sighs. "I always told myself I would like to be dead by the time this one rolled around."

"So what happened, Grandmama?" Katniss teases, smiling lightly.

Lucy Gray beams affectionately back. "You did, dear. Oh, and of course, this lout."

"Hey!" Haymitch barks.

We all laugh. "So, gather at the Everdeens' place at sunset...?" I check the sun. "I mean... now?"

"Give us five minutes and we'll have refreshments," Katniss promises.

"I'll bring the bread!" I offer.

"I'll get the liquor!" Haymitch dashes for his house.

"I'll bring... something," Lucy Gray shrugs, at a loss.

Five minutes later, we are all gathered in the Everdeens' living room. It feels nice to have a somewhat sprawling Village up here, with new life injected into it. I can imagine Lucy Gray and Haymitch must feel the same way. No longer with the worst Victory record, now we're... tied for the worst Victory record, with Districts 6 and 8. Plus, District 8 apparently produced the Victor of the 1st Quarter Quell.

Every 25 years, the Capitol hosts a special edition of the Hunger Games with an interesting twist to help pacify discontent in the districts. As the Panem anthem begins to play, we see President Snow step up to the podium and begin his speech:

"On the 25th anniversary, as a reminder that it was the district's choice to initiate violence, each district was made to hold a special election and vote on the tributes who would represent it."

I wonder what that must have been like. Picking the kids who had to go. It is worse, I think, to be turned over by your neighbors than by the mere whims of the Reaping Bowl. No doubt District 12 saw it as an opportunity to get rid of some dead weight; two Seam kids from the Community Home almost certainly went that year.

"On the 50th anniversary, as a reminder that two rebels died for every Capitol citizen, the districts had to send twice as many tributes."

I imagine having to face a field of 47 instead of 23. But old Haymitch Abernathy did, and somehow came home alive. Throughout the year, the editions of past Games have sometimes been re-aired. Haymitch says his Games have been rebroadcast, though it's rare. I wonder why...?

The President is now procuring a slip of paper from an envelope. "On the 75th anniversary, as a reminder that even the strongest cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes are to be Reaped from their existing pool of Victors."

Mrs. Everdeen lets out a strangled cry of "No!" Prim shrieks and buries her face in her cat's soft fur. Lucy Gray has a horrified hand at her mouth. My own mouth unhinges a little and my gaze becomes glassy.

"ARRRRRRRHHHHHH!" With a roar, Haymitch flings his half-empty bottle of alcohol against the TV, so hard that it shatters.

My beautiful Katniss has a haunted stare in her eyes. Standing up, panting so that her breasts heave for each gulp of air, she turns tail and runs out of the house. I pelt after her.

"Katniss, come back!"

* * *

I find my girlfriend collapsed against the Village fountain and weeping. As soon as she sees me, she is in my arms and sobbing into my chest.

"Peeta, we have to save Haymitch and Grandmama! It's us Snow wants anyway!"

"And they're in there, trying to find a way to save us!" I counter. Gazing at her, my expression softens. "C'mere." I kiss her sweetly. "We're gonna be OK... I promise."

Wrapped in each other's embrace, we turn to find Lucy Gray and Haymitch stumbling towards us.

"We need to talk," Katniss's grandmama orders. "Now, District 6 is the only district like ours who will still have only two options for a tribute per gender..."

"Grandmama, why bother with strategy?" Katniss asks morosely. "Snow wants us to go back in."

"Well, he isn't gonna get you until the names are called from the Bowl. Reapings have been rigged before - hell, that was pretty much the whole point of the First Quell! - but Snow can't rig one this small. Haymitch and I still have cards to play, and we're gonna play them!"

"Here's a card we can play," I suggest. "For the next three months, we train and act like Careers. One of us is going to be Victor again, be damned - besides," I finish, looking at Haymitch. "We've got a Quell title to defend. That means _you_ have to withdraw from the booze."

I expect Haymitch to loudly argue, but instead, he swallows hard and shakily nods. "OK." His voice is small. "Let's train."

* * *

And so we do - every morning within the Village and in the woods behind our houses, just beyond the District fence. An 81-year-old grandma, a 41-year-old recovering drunk and two 17-year-old teenagers, preparing for war once again. Katniss teaches archery lessons and wilderness survival. Haymitch conducts a knife-throwing seminar, with demonstrations of hand-to-hand combat. Lucy Gray and Mrs. Everdeen jointly conduct lectures on poisonous plants. Being merely a Baker, I can't think of anything good I might be able to teach, until my girlfriend suggests I take charge of preparing all of us healthy, nutritious meals. I also implement a full exercise regimen, punctuated by a daily run through the district - Village to Donner Train Station and back again, a distance of about three miles. Katniss also reminds me that I became very accomplished with spears in the Training Center, so I also focus on that. But to actually _get_ a spear, we have to "borrow" some from the District 12 Armory. No, we don't actually steal them, but if you want to handle anything bigger than a kitchen knife in this town, you have to obtain the permission of the Head Peacekeeper in writing. This Lucy Gray does for us. Usually, you can only handle dangerous weaponry if you need it for a profession (like the butcher, and Mrs. Everdeen needs some sharp tools for her work, mostly scalpels) or a pursuit like ours. Thread doesn't try to stop us from Training; the Careers do it every year, and perhaps he finds it amusing. On things like our daily jogs through the District, our quartet looks rather silly.

* * *

We stand at the edge of a small lake, in the woods beyond District 12. Katniss paces up and down between Lucy Gray, Haymitch and myself, all in a line.

"Swimming is an important life skill, but also survival skill," she lectures. "And has been used as a test for the arena many times. One that we all have to be ready for." Katniss admitted to me that when I first approached her and admitted that I can't swim, she nearly laughed, and offered to teach me privately. But then, Haymitch and Lucy Gray came to her with the exact same problem. I understand most folks in District 12 can't swim, as this lake is really the single body of water available, and only illegally. But Katniss's father insisted on his family knowing how to swim, teaching her when she was a little girl. Primrose was apparently a baby when she learned. Even Mrs. Everdeen knows how to swim.

Leaning against a tree, Gale Hawthorne observes us. He wants to smirk, I know it, as my girl attempts to do the impossible: _this oughta be good_. He and I have managed to be cordial at best, and the Seam boy has never cared for Haymitch. I don't know how he feels about Lucy Gray.

Katniss strips down to her lingerie, and I instantly feel myself pitch a tent in my pants. Haymitch is grinning like a horny little boy; Lucy Gray, of a more modest generation, looks uncomfortable. Gale has propped himself against his tree with renewed interest. I refrain from rolling my eyes at him, as Katniss wades into the lake up to her chest.

"Come out to me!"

Lucy Gray manages a passable doggy-paddle. Haymitch and I more or less jump in and splash around until we reach Katniss. My girlfriend rewards me with a chaste kiss and Haymitch an affectionate punch on the arm.

"Not bad for beginners. Now, let's focus on the actual strokes..."

* * *

Effie Trinket does her part, sending us care packages from the Capitol. Inside are newspaper clippings of polls taken of the Capitol citizenry; predictions over who will be the Victor of Victors, as they're calling it, show all of us - even Lucy Gray! - among the top contenders.

Another package that arrives feels rather heavy, as I haul it onto Haymitch's kitchen island one spring morning. Katniss is perched on the counter as she watches me rummage through the box. There is an assortment of videotapes and DVDs inside, each meticulously labeled by Effie in her perfect penmanship.

"Apparently, they're rentals..." my voice carries out of the box from where nearly all of my head is buried inside of it. "Of past Hunger Games."

"Well, why don't we start with #1?" Katniss suggests.

"Effie's note says she only sent us tapes of Victors we may have to face - we don't _have_ #1," I inform her, pawing through the lot. "The earliest we have, apparently, is the 11th."

"10th," Haymitch corrects me.

Poking my head out of the box, I blink at him, bemused. "11th."

"10th." Haymitch is sporting a really strained smile on his face and glancing down at his feet.

I frown. "Haymitch... I've just been through this entire box, and I'm pretty sure if I had found Lucy Gray's Games, I would have told you."

"I never said it was in the box," Haymitch mumbles.

Katniss peers at him, leery. "Haymitch...?"

"Are you all looking for this?" And our drunken mentor suddenly has a DVD disc between his fingers. Next to us, Lucy Gray has gone completely ashen.

"What did you _do_?" she hisses, choked.

"It was after my Victory Tour, during that doctor's appointment you scheduled for me, remember?" Haymitch begins. "Dr. Gaul checked out my injury, and was just placing some of my medical files inside a safe in her office. She was called away abruptly to see another patient, leaving the safe door open. I saw a DVD disc in a glass case labeled with the number of your Games. So I took it."

"You mean you _stole_ it." Katniss is gawping in disbelief.

"No, I just... borrowed it," Haymitch finishes lamely.

"Hold on, back up: why would Dr. Gaul - one of the most decorated physicians in all of Panem history - have a copy of Lucy Gray's Games inside her own personal safe?" I wonder.

"To make sure no one else saw it." Katniss's grandmama's voice is quite small. We all look to her. "Dr. Volumnia Gaul served as Head Gamemaker the year I won. Didn't you young ones notice how sparse my lecture was during Hunger Games History class? There's... only so much I can say." She shakes her head to clear it. "But I'm afraid I don't understand - if _that's_ my Games -" and she points to the DVD in her protege's hand. "What disc does the _Capitol_ have?"

Haymitch smirks. "My first X-ray sonogram of my stomach injury."

"You mean that scar that goes across your beer gut?" I inquire. Tragically, I've seen Haymitch devoid of a shirt - it isn't a good look for him.

"Well, when you put it like that, boy..."

"And you kept this for 25 years?" Lucy Gray demands.

"Yes."

"And it didn't occur to you at any point during all that time to think, 'Huh. I should probably tell my mentor I have this.'?!" Lucy Gray seems beside herself with rage.

Haymitch just laughs. "What would you have done, old lady? Given it back?" Lucy Gray doesn't answer; there is a tense silence.

Katniss finally breaks it. "Well, we have it now. Can we watch it?" From the fearful look in Lucy Gray's eyes, I want to chide my girlfriend to be a little more sensitive. "Please, Grandmama?"

Lucy Gray winces. "Well... I suppose so. It was 65 years ago, Katniss. Past is in the past."

That's a right lie. It hasn't even been twelve months for Katniss and me, and the past is most definitely _not_ in the past. But we all gather on the couch and let Lucy Gray pop the disc in. And I attempt to lose myself in the 10th Hunger Games.

The entire thing is brutal, quick (the whole damn thing, from gong to Victor crowned, lasts a paltry five days!)... and completely unrecognizable.

"OK, can we just pause the tape?" I call loudly, and Lucy Gray quickly obeys. "I have a question... well, actually, I have _all_ the questions. Starting with: where the _fuck_ is the Cornucopia?"

"There wasn't one," Lucy Gray grumbles in a dry quip. "The Cornucopia wouldn't be introduced until... five years after I won, I think?"

"OK, fair enough, but that's not even the worst part: where are the cannons to announce the tributes' deaths? Where are the hovercrafts to take the bodies away? Sponsors are sending shit in by drone that any old person can just hotwire? Tributes can control freakin' _mutts_ now? Why can a tribute use poison as a weapon? - that's against the rules!"

"Why is the sad cebu sad?" Haymitch screechily chimes in at random, before cackling. Lucy Gray shoots him a reproachful look.

"Poison was outlawed starting the year after I won..." she informs us helpfully.

"And either I need to get my eyes checked, or the first Capitolites were like those old Republicans who couldn't perform basic functions! Like counting: there are _14_ tributes instead of 24," I whine.

"That's because ten of them died before the Games began."

Katniss snorts. "Well, now we know where that 'No-Fighting-With-Other-Tributes' rule came from."

"Actually, most of them were killed accidentally during our guided tour of the arena, with our mentors."

Katniss looks gobsmacked. "You got a _guided tour_ of your arena. Beforehand. Isn't that like cheating?"

"Forget cheating - that shit's just weird!" I stare. "And how could you have had a mentor that early? Not all of the districts would have even produced at least one Victor yet!"

"Because at that time, Victors didn't mentor," Lucy Gray relates. "The best and brightest from the Capitol Academies were brought on. The reason my Games has never been re-aired is because the Capitol believes my mentor and I cheated to win. Those rainbow snakes that attacked everyone but me? My mentor planted one of my scarves in the snake pit so they would learn my scent. Because of that, me and the Victors of the first decade of the Games were brought on to mentor the next year... before that, we had merely returned to our former lives after leaving the arena. Victors' Villages began to be built. Poison was banned from the arena as a weapon. The sponsor drones became parachutes, which couldn't be hijacked to attack other tributes."

"Who was your mentor, Grandmama?" Katniss is studying her grandmother curiously.

Lucy Gray glances to her, lip quivering. Then she gets out, in a whisper, "President Snow."

Katniss and I nearly leap off the couch, both talking at once. Haymitch oddly remains where he is. "President _Snow_?!"

"He was a top student from the Academies back then. Just as cunning as he is now. We were... actually friends once. After we cheated, the Capitol banned Academy students from mentoring until the complaints got too loud to ignore - those students are now groomed to be the escorts you know today. Coryo and I eventually parted ways. He rose through the ranks to become Head Gamemaker and eventually took over as President."

Katniss sinks back into the couch, head in her hands. "I'm exhausted. Can we change the subject by watching one of the Quells now?"

"I checked the box - the person who won in 25 must be dead by now, cause I couldn't find his tape."

"Indigo," Lucy Gray speaks a name, her voice pained. "He passed away several years ago - was still relatively young, I'm sorry to say."

"Guess that means we can only watch yours, Haymitch," I turn to the drunk. "We might pick up something valuable about how they work."

His jaw clenches. "Fine."

* * *

The day of the Reaping dawns hot and sultry. At about 9:30 in the morning, Peackeepers march into the Village and set up posses at four different doors in the neighborhood. Katniss and I try to ignore the guns drawn and pointing at us, as we are made to join Lucy Gray and Haymitch in the center of the Village.

Thread, the new Head Peacekeeper, seems to be lining us Victors up in order of triumph. But when he gets to Katniss and me, he stops short. "Which one of you came first?" he demands, as if he doesn't know. But what startles me is that he well and truly _doesn't_ know. I quickly offer to let Katniss go ahead of me in line, since she is a lady. Plus, it makes for a nice pattern: girl, boy.

"Victors, forward! Quick... march!" And we begin walking in a high goosestep, out of the Village and down the hill.

Since Lucy Gray is leading us off and has to use her cane, the pace quickly becomes dictated by her. It's slow, like the beat of an ominous war drum. As we enter the Seam, I can hear a voice drifting back to me on the wind: it's Lucy Gray. Singing.

" _Are you, are you coming to the tree? They strung up a man they say who murdered three. Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it be, if we met at midnight in the Hanging Tree..."_

I have never heard the song before. But Haymitch and Katniss clearly have, for my girlfriend's beautiful voice soon joins the chorus. After another stanza, Haymitch follows:

" _Are you, are you coming to the tree? Where a dead man called out for his love to flee? Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it be, if we met at midnight in the Hanging Tree..."_

I eventually insert myself as best I can, though I don't know the words. Any moment now, I expect the Peacekeepers to accost us, force us to shut up. But though an officer or two looks askance at us warily, no one makes a move. No one says a word - not even Thread, who has managed a brutual crackdown of Twelve these last few months.

It is nearly 10:00 when we Victors enter the Square and mount the steps of the Justice Building. A Peacekeeper has to help Lucy Gray navigate the stairs with her cane. Behind her, Haymitch is violently twitching, the awful effects of alcohol withdrawal making themselves known to add to the sheer terror he must be feeling. He's been suffering from the quakes on again, off again, since the Quell was announced, but hasn't touched a single drop since the Reading of the Card. With golden hair like the ones heard of in fairytales, Effie Trinket lacks her usual verve.

"Welcome... welcome to the 75th Anniversary - the 3rd Quarter Quell - of the Hunger Games. As always... ladies first." Effie turns to the glass bowl at her right with only two slips of paper in it and unfurls it. "The female tribute from District 12: Katniss Everdeen, the Co-Victor of the 74th Hunger Games."

"I volunteer as tribute!" Lucy Gray's voice is raspy, but sure and strong. Katniss turns to her, stricken.

"Grandmama, no..."

" _Yes_ ," Lucy Gray's eyes flash. "Now, all you worry about is giving me great-grandbabies, dear." Katniss tamps down a sob.

"Wonderful!" Effie squeaks. "And now for the men." She crosses to the glass bowl at her left - also with only two slips of paper in it.

"The male tribute from District 12..." There is a slight pause before Effie gets it out, breathless. "Haymitch Abernathy, the Victor of the 50th Hunger Games, the Second Quarter Quell."

I make my decision in a split-second.

"I volunteer as tribute!"

I am surprised that Haymitch is with it enough to forcefully grab my arm, holding me back. "I can't let you do that."

"You can't stop me."

"Peeta -"

"Let go," I whisper fiercely. He does, and I take my place beside Lucy Gray, unable to look my girlfriend in the eye, to see her wounded expression.

"Wonderful! The tributes from District 12: Lucy Gray Baird, the Victor of the 10th Hunger Games... and Peeta Mellark, the Co-Victor of the 74th Hunger Games." A slight silence. "Well, all that remains is..."

It is Katniss's mother and sister who start it. The three-fingered salute that has become a symbol of the rebellion. To their credit, the whole of District 12 copies them.

Thread immediately swoops in to grab us, Katniss struggling. "No, I have to say goodbye!"

"New plans: straight to the train." Thread growls.

"Katniss... KATNISS!" Prim's voice is the last thing we hear before the doors slam shut.


	19. Training and Interviews, Part III

**Chapter 19: Training and Interviews, Part III**

Haymitch is the first one to break the silence that has been holding our little group hostage for the better part of the last hour.

"You're an _idiot_!" he snarls at me. "You have a girlfriend to live for!"

"And you're still going through withdrawal, and have already been through a Quell," I shoot back. "I had to make sure you were safe."

Haymitch blinks at this, seemingly knocked back on his much more sober ass by my words. In any case, though still bewildered, he also appears touched.

At the head of the table, Effie dabs at her napkin. "I've had a thought."

"You don't say," Haymitch smirks sardonically.

"Katniss has her mockingjay pin. I have my hair. Lucy Gray... I'm not sure if you might have anything for a token..."

"I'll leave that up to you, dear," my girlfriend's grandma rumbles.

"Very well. And I am going to get you two boys something gold."

"Ehhhh... why?" Haymitch blinks stupidly. He's already reaching for a bottle of spirits, and I do nothing to stop him. Free of the Reaping, he can be as drunk as he likes again. Besides, Haymitch seems to mentor best when he is totally plastered.

"For _unity_!" Effie stresses, blinking back tears. "Show them we are a team! They can't just..." Her voice trails off, threatening a sob, at least until Katniss takes her hand.

"Thank you."

Effie smiles and squeezes it. Haymitch reaches for her other free hand in a sign of peace. Lucy Gray and I quickly join in, forming an unbroken chain.

In the corner, the small TV set blares to life with the Capitol anthem. "Oh, the other Reapings are starting!"

"I'll get the Reaping gender columns!" Katniss darts for her room.

"I'll get the Victor flashcards!" I call - documents that we compiled weeks ago as part of our training.

It all starts predictably with District 1. Being a Career district, this place has a healthy crop of Victors to choose from, on both genders. Early in our training process I had noted with interest that, of the 15 Victors who have passed, most of them came from Career districts.

"The male tribute from District 1... Gloss Ritchson, the Victor of the 63rd Hunger Games."

"The female tribute from District 1... Cashmere Ritchson, the Victor of the 64th Hunger Games."

Of course - the classic brother-sister duo who won consecutively when Katniss and I were little. Remembering how Career districts train their tributes illegally before sending them in at 18, I do the math that Gloss and Cashmere are both on the cusp of 30. Gloss is 30, actually.

District 2 is next.

"The male tribute from District 2..."

"I volunteer as tribute!" A big, hulking man with a deep baritone voice pushes his way to the front before the escort has even the chance to read the Reaped name. He must be at least Haymitch's age, perhaps a little older, and still appears in remarkable shape.

The escort continues. "The male tribute from District 2... Brutus Gunn, the Victor of the 48th Hunger Games!"

"The female tribute from District 2... Enobaria Golding, the Victor of the 62nd Hunger Games!"

OK. Career Tributes, also went in at 18... that would put Enobaria at roughly 31, while Brutus is probably 45.

On to District 3. Right away, I can see the difference between their numbers and those of the Careers. Only five souls are on the stage - three males, two females.

"The male tribute from District 3... Beetee Latier, the Victor of the 36th Hunger Games!"

A bespectacled man with dark skin takes his place.

"The female tribute from District 3... Wiress Plummer, the Victor of the 51st Hunger Games!"

No rules can help me pinpoint the ages of these two this time, except that I know no tribute has won the Games any younger than age fifteen... save once. The best I can manage is that Beetee is late 50s, while Wiress is in her early 40s - a peer of Haymitch. In fact, I realize, glancing to my ally, I realize that Wiress triumphed Haymitch's first year as a mentor. Did we watch her Games? We must have, but I don't remember much of it.

The feed cuts to District 4, and I realize we may see the Reaping of the youngest tribute to ever win. Despite commonly allying with the Careers, this district's victory record is not much better than the one preceding it. Six people are roped off on the stage - four women and two men.

"The male tribute from District 4... Finnick Odair, the Victor of the 65th Hunger Games!"

Haymitch groans. And there it is. Finnick, the handsome guy who was crowned a decade ago. At a mere 24, he still looks flawless, though his fellow male Victor doesn't look much younger.

"The female tribute from District 4... Annie -"

There is a piercing wail from the auburn haired young woman in the women's section. On the feed, I think I see Finnick's head snap in her direction, though I can't be certain. And then an elderly and decrepit woman is raising her hand and jumping up and down.

"The female tribute from District 4... Mags Flanagan, the Victor of the 11th Hunger Games!"

I turn to my district partner in sympathy.

"Just turned 80," Effie sniffs, even as Lucy Gray buries her face in her hands.

District 5 is up, and already I'm exhausted. There are seven victors this time - four men. Three women.

"The male tribute from District 5... James Logan, the Victor of the 44th Hunger Games!"

"God!" Haymitch moans, reaching for his flask. It is then that I realize I have seen James Logan before - on screen passing a bottle to Haymitch. They must be drinking buddies.

"The female tribute from District 5... Ivette Li-Sanchez, the Victor of the 57th Hunger Games!"

That meant she won the year Katniss's parents got married, the year before we were born. Ivette does look to be in her 30s, and reminds me of Foxface, the girl tribute from there last year. Is it possible this Ivette is Foxface's _mother_? My stomach squirms at the thought.

"Is there a commercial break?" I ask Effie queasily.

My escort purses her lips tightly. "Maybe after the next one, dear." Though I'm not hopeful.

Turning back to District 6, I see two men and two women on the stage, just like us.

"The male tribute from District 6... Justin Hix, the Victor of the 31st Hunger Games!"

"The female tribute from District 6... Megan Hayes, the Victor of the 32nd Hunger Games!"

"The Morphlings," Haymitch informs me as he fills his flask again. "Basically won by hiding until everyone else was dead."

 _Back-to-back wins_ , I have to concede, _impressive, especially for an outlier district_. Both of these tributes' faces look drawn and careworn - clearly in their 60s.

"Sweetheart, do you have your gendered chart?" Haymitch barks suddenly.

"Yeah," Katniss holds it up.

"Pay close attention. If I'm not mistaken, these next few districts have a single option for at least one gender."

As we cut to District 7, I realize that he's right. There is only a single woman on stage by the glass bowl for the female tributes.

"The male tribute from District 7... Blight Jordan, the Victor of the 53rd Hunger Games!"

"The female tribute from District 7... Johanna Mason, the Victor of the 71st Hunger Games!"

Of course. Johanna Mason, the girl who won several years ago by pretending to be a weakling until only a handful of tributes were left, and then taking out her axe. Somehow, I get the feeling we won't be allies in the arena. Lucy Gray seems inclined to agree.

"Put Blight down, though," Haymitch advises me. "He won at only 15, the youngest ever until Finnick came along. Friends with everyone."

District 8 is on deck. This time, however, it is the men who have only one option to choose from.

"The male tribute from District 8... Woof Casino, the Victor of the 19th Hunger Games!" I notice huge tears gushing down Lucy Gray's cheeks. Must be another one of her friends.

"The female tribute from District 8... Cecelia Sanchez, the Victor of the 60th Hunger Games!"

"Oh no! Not Cecelia!" Effie cries, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. I watch as the Peacekeepers have to nudge and guide Woof to his spot. He moves shakily, which is understandable since he is clearly in his 70s and only behind Lucy Gray and that Mags Flanagan from Four in age. It occurs to me that he must have mentored the winner of the 1st Quarter Quell a half century ago - didn't Lucy Gray say the Victor that year originated from District 8? The woman, Cecelia, is somewhere in her 30s, and has to extradite herself from three screaming children to go and shake Woof's hand. I didn't know that any Victors actually married, much less had children of their own just so they could be Reaped. I just know Katniss is judging Cecelia as quite foolish.

I hope that District 9 is the last of the districts before us who will only have one tribute to choose from a gender column. I nervously eye the lone muscular male standing imposingly onstage as he is plucked for death.

"The male tribute from District 9... Daniel Bernhardt, the Victor of the 43rd Hunger Games!"

"Best wrestler the arena has ever seen," Haymitch nods grimly. "He will be lethal. We treat him like a Career." I wince.

"The female tribute from District 9... Sylva Mayleaf, the Victor of the 39th Hunger Games!"

 _A contemporary of Beetee_ , I think. _Early 50s_. Sylva must have been Daniel's mentor, for how he hugs her so warmly.

I don't know what type of expression I am wearing, but it must be bad, for Effie says to me, "It's almost over, Peeta."

District 10 is up.

"The male tribute from District 10... Jackson Spidell, the Victor of the 66th Hunger Games!"

"The female tribute from District 10... Tiffany Waxler, the Victor of the 61st Hunger Games!"

Jackson Spidell is the closest in age to Johanna and I - probably around Finnick's age. Tiffany Waxler, meanwhile, looks to be closer in age to Cecelia Sanchez of Eight.

I nearly cry with relief when District 11 comes on screen. There are only five people on the stage - three women and two men.

"The male tribute from District 11... Chaff Mitchell, the Victor of the 45th Hunger Games!"

Haymitch looks crestfallen as the dark-skinned man with only a stump for one arm takes his position. Effie just tuts. "Well, Chaff could never stay out of a fight anyway." And I realize where I have seen him before: another one of Haymitch's drinking buddies.

"The female tribute from District 11... Seeder Howell, the Victor of the 33rd Hunger Games!"

A woman who looks like she could belong in the Seam back home joins Chaff. Haymitch nods approvingly.

"Both of them would be fine allies. I trust them. Wonderful people."

We watch just long enough to see Lucy Gray and I being called before Effie mercifully turns off the TV. I then go through each chart starring who was picked and crossing out who was not.

Right away, I can see that despite the Quell twist, much of the field is skewed on the younger side - those in their 30s all the way down through me. That is about a third of us. This seems quite tragic to me, and it is with particular horror that I realize, for instance, that every single Victor for a seven-year stretch (much of the Sixties - the 60th through the 66th Games) are all accounted for in this thing. These are young Victors, still in their prime, who will be quite difficult to beat. And I'm not just thinking of Finnick Odair, though he is now at the top of my kill list.

The other half of the Reaped Victors are peers of Haymitch - Chaff, Brutus, James Logan, and Daniel Bernhardt - up through Sylva Mayleaf of 9, Beetee, Seeder, the Morphlings, and old Woof, Mags and Lucy Gray who are all nearing the end of their lives anyway. I am almost tempted to rank the field into who are legitimate contenders and who are not, but I know that would be quite ageist of me and therefore quite foolish. I don't know any of these people – Haymitch and Lucy Gray do. Perhaps they will give me some deeper backgrounds on this or that Victor, but only training will give me a more complete picture, I decide, as I head to bed for the night...

* * *

Lucy Gray is clearly anguished when we pull into the Capitol and our stylists descend on us, prepping us for the Tribute Parade. Haymitch and Katniss leave us to begin rustling up some sponsors, my girlfriend bestowing on me a soft kiss. I am left alone to deal with her 81-year-old grandma, who seems to be rapidly coming unglued.

It only gets worse after the Chariot Parade, during which I can feel the President's eyes on my district partner. During some mingling before heading up to our floor in the brand-new Training Center, Lucy Gray greets and talks with Mags and old Woof from 8. Mags doesn't say much - can't, actually, beyond making gummy vocalizations with her mouth and lovingly cupping Lucy Gray's cheek. My mentor smiles tenderly. Woof doesn't seem much better off - it is apparant that he has little idea what is going on, frequently wandering away until his escort (District 8 apparently has no other Victor to mentor them, as their other two colleagues - Indigo Weaver and a woman named Savera Inchcape - have both long since died) has to corrall him back. He does seem to exhibit a flash of recognition for Lucy Gray, though, or at least remembers who she is. He gives her a parting peck on the cheek when we bid goodnight for the evening.

In the elevators with Katniss, Haymitch and Effie, on our ride up to the penthouse suite, Lucy Gray falls against me. "I can't kill them, Peeta! I can't!"

I gently rub her back. "I don't think you'll have to, Grandmama," I tell her gently. "And... I don't know, maybe... maybe we can take Woof and Mags with us." I glance helplessly to Haymitch, who regards me as though I've grown three heads. He's been harping on us about needing some allies, but evidently, Lucy Gray's oldest friends aren't whom he had in mind.

Training begins first thing the next morning. Right away, Lucy Gray is drawn to her pair of elderly friends. Confident that she can handle herself, I turn my attention to mingling with some of the other Victors, while still hovering close by. Lucy Gray, Mags, and Woof mostly stay glued to the Crafting Table at one end, ignoring how the Morphlings from Six are making a mess of the paints at the other. The decrepit triumvirate chat as though they are soulmates; occassionally, I'll overhear a name - "Savera", for example, who apparently won the Games immediately before Lucy Gray.

My heart can't help but break in sympathy. Despite Haymitch and Katniss practically begging me not to, I decide that for the sake of my practically-grandmother-in-law, I have to bring Mags and Woof into an alliance with us. So I set off to get a feel for their district partners.

Right away, I can tell that Cecelia Sanchez, the young mother from 8, is just going through the motions. She pretty much ignores Woof, and is equally standoffish in brushing me aside. Finnick Odair, the charismatic playboy from Four, is more friendly; when I float the idea of an allaince, for the sake of our ancient mentors, he readily agrees. Observing the tender look he sends Mags' way, I know that - despite how ruthless Haymitch insists he is - he won't abandon her, not even for the Careers (who have been actively wooing Finnick to join their crowd). In this, I have to respect Finnick Odair - he won't abandon his mentor, just like I won't abandon mine. He and I build up a pretty good rapport, too - he offers me a tutoring session in knot-tying for an hour's worth of spearing instruction. Though I have heard much about his skill with a trident, which surely is a similar concept.

The three days blur by, and before long, I am presenting my skills second-to-last of all. I wait by the elevators for Lucy Gray to finish, and we head up to the penthouse for dinner.

Haymitch immediately turns the subject to allies. He is incredulous that I have not budged on bringing along Mags and Woof, but learns to swallow it when I mention that Finnick is also in. "A quintet of allies - so be it," he grunts. "But try not to make it any bigger than that. Katniss and I will be in touch with Ron Stafford of Four and District 8's escort to make arrangements."

The anthem plays from the TV suddenly, signaling the broadcast of the Training Scores. Finnick nets a 10, putting him right up there with Daniel Bernhardt of District 9 and the Careers. Mags pulls a 5, but poor Woof does even worse - a pathetic 1. When Caesar gets to District 12, we make Hunger Games history: both of us pull a perfect and as-yet-unheard of score of a dozen.

"They did that so the Careers will know to target you," Haymitch snarls. "Go to bed. I can't stand to look at either of you."

* * *

When Victors are able to mentor by gender, the rule is that your tributes can only be coached separately if at least one of them explicitly asks for it. I requested such an arragement last year, and it nearly ruined Katniss's and my relationship. So I am more than a little shocked when my mentors simply take it upon themselves to coach us for our interviews with Caesar separately. I already know Lucy Gray and I will be an alliance, and I have nothing to fear from her... I think. Like last year, Haymitch and I come up with a desperate but ballsy strategy. I don't know what Katniss and I her grandmother are planning, in the separate conference room. I imagine a lot of weeping is involved. It has heartened me that Katniss has finally accepted Lucy Gray as family. Forgiven her from staying out of her life all these years. I'm just devastated that it had to end this way for them.

That evening, the interviews start out nice enough, but once we get to District 3, it all goes downhill from there. Beetee questions the legality of the Quell with a prosecutor's nerdy jargon. Mags cannot form verbal responses to Caesar's questions, leading him in a cringe-worthy round of charades. Finnick takes up all his time reciting a poem to his one true love in the Capitol... and about a hundred women (along with close to 50 men) faint because they're sure he means them. Then, it's a series of lessons in substance abuse, with James Logan - the drunk from 5 - and the Morphlings from Six blurting out random blips of thought due to being either intoxicated or stoned as high as a kite. Johanna Mason from 7 launches into a tirade, literally cussing the audience out. Woof abruptly wanders off the stage in the middle of his interview and doesn't come back.

By the time it's Lucy Gray's turn, the audience is an absolute wreck. People have been weeping and collapsing and calling for change. The sight of the oldest Victor Reaped - the oldest living Victor, period - practically causes a riot.

"My, my, Lucy Gray, how old are you?" Caesar graciously takes her hand and kisses it.

Lucy Gray smiles. "Just turned 81, Caesar."

"And you've been out of the arena for nearly two-thirds of a century - 65 years! - is that right?"

She nods.

"I hear you were quite the singer back in your day - care to hum a tune?"

There is a bit of rumbling laughter, which Lucy Gray chuckles along with. "No."

"Any regrets?" Caesar lobs his last question.

Lucy Gray takes a deep breath. "I only wish that I had had more time to get to know my granddaughter, Katniss, a little better."

Caesar is floored, and a gasp goes up from the crowd. "Wait, wait - we have a grandmother-granddaughter pair of Victors...? Lucy Gray, would you care to comment...?" But the buzzer has sounded, and my mentor is already making her way back to her seat. I am now up to bring it home.

"Now, Peeta... the wedding... a marriage, never to be...?"

"Well, actually, we got married - in secret." I lie. "Katniss and I... we want our love to be eternal. And I wouldn't have any regrets at all if... if it weren't..." My voice breaks.

"If what? If it weren't for what?" Caesar presses.

"If it weren't for the baby!"

Cries of horror go up. And even more dangerously, calls to, "Stop the Games! Stop the Games!"

I barely hear the buzzer sound as I quickly flee back to my seat. The audience is panicking, people calling for help. Caesar is screeching to make himself heard. Hugging Lucy Gray, I clasp her hand in mine. Then she gropes for Chaff's stump of a hand at her other side and holds fast.

It sets off a chain reaction. Up and down the line, all the Victors hold hands, even the Careers, until we lift the one, unbroken chain aloft. The Panem anthem is reverberating through the floorboards, someone desperately cuts the lights to even more piercing screams, but too late:

All of Panem has seen.


	20. Are You Coming to the Tree?

**Chapter 20: Are You Coming to the Tree?**

Katniss invites me back into her room that night, where we spend hours upon hours making love. Thoroughly exhausted, we use up the last of the time we have observing the sky gradually begin to lighten through the curtains.

It's around 8:30 when we finally will our entwined bodies to move. We both take a shower together, during which I give Katniss one last, wonderful fuck, before we dry and dress. The arena garb hanging in my closet is actually a wetsuit, tight against my skin, and my girlfriend has to help me into it. I have no idea what the chainmetal could mean for the terrain that awaits; I'll leave that for Portia, my stylist, when I say goodbye to her at the tubes.

Exiting Katniss's room, we meet Effie, Haymitch and Lucy Gray waiting for us in the penthouse kitchen. The old lady is wearing the same wetsuit as me.

"The family drama stuff was a stroke of genius; unfortunately, the Games are still on. This is goodbye, for now." Haymitch bestows on Lucy Gray - his master and dear friend for twenty-five years - with a hug reminscient of a son honoring his mother. Then, he hugs me. I don't detect any of the lingering anger and betrayal he felt upon me volunteering for him - a point the drunk makes clear when he hisses along my earlobe, "Peeta?... I never got to thank you, for saving my life."

"You're welcome." My Adam's apple wobbles.

We all crowd into the elevator and ride up to the roof, where a hovercraft awaits to take us away. I can see the Victors from Districts 5 and 10 already strapped into their seats.

Katniss takes me in her arms and kisses me passionately. "You'd better come home to me..." she whispers sultrily. Gazing at me, she suddenly blurts it out: "I love you."

I beam, chastely peck her lips one last time. "I know. I love you too."

"I mean it," she croaks. "You'd better come home to me."

"He will, dear," Lucy Gray murmurs behind me.

It suddenly occurs to me that my district partner and I may be working at cross purposes. As we stride to the hovercraft, I hiss to her, "I'm getting you out. You deserve to see your great-grandchildren."

"I'm old, Peeta, I've lived my life. If I don't get you out, there won't _be_ any great-grandchildren." And by that I know she knows the pregnancy scare with Katniss is a lie.

When the hovercraft touches down, Lucy Gray and I are separated and I am hustled underground. Portia greets me warmly, examining the material of my wetsuit between her fingers.

"Mesh. No thermal heating. So I'd expect tropics or desert." Fantastic. Last year's arena will look like tea and crumpets compared to this.

The announcer warns of ten seconds to launch, and I hug Portia goodbye, stepping into the glass tube, which seals around me. Slowly, the pod begins to rise up, up, up and when I emerge into the open air, the glare of the sunlight blinds me. It seems to be coming from everywhere: the hazy outline of the trees, the water lapping at my feet...

 _Well_ , I think weakly. _Thank Panem my brilliant girlfriend taught me how to swim_.

Each of the tributes' pedestals are positioned within a miniature sea. Rocky spokes jut out from a craggy island about a hundred yards ahead, atop which sits the Cornucopia. The spokes are arranged in such a way that two pedestals are trapped within each watery 'wedge' created. Glancing to my left, I see that I have been paired off with Jackson Spidell, the young man from 10, with whom I shared a ride on the hovercraft not even an hour ago. To my right, just over the stretch of rock separating us, I am heartened to spot Mags, who grins gummily and points at me.

"No!" I holler. "Stay where you are! I'll come to you!" On Mags' other side, I spot Blight Jordan, the man from 7, glance over at us, and I tense. If he attempts to harm an old lady before she even has a chance to reach me...

At least one of my allies is safe and within reach. But who I'm really worried about is:

 _Lucy Gray... Where are you, Lucy Gray?_ I scan frantically. In the wedge two down from me, on the opposite side of Mags and Blight, I can see the broad build of Brutus, muscles primed, doing his own sweep of his wedge partner, James Logan of 5. And in the wedge beyond them, beginning to curve around the horn but still just within my sightline, I see -

 _There you are_. The bright crop of white hair, coupled with Mags' presence at my side, allows me to deduce by process of elimination, that my district partner is five pedestals (or two and a half wedges) away from me. Trapped with her is old Woof from 8, though I can just make out his silhouette. From afar, I watch as the old friends reach hands across the wet expanse between them, in solidarity.

"Let the 75th Hunger Games begin!" Claudius Templesmith announces with the tone of a man who, on some level, knows he is damning us. "May the odds be ever in your favor!"

In those last thirty seconds or so before the gong goes off, I think about a great many things. I wonder about how many Victors actually know how to swim, as I only just learned weeks ago. Depending on the answer, this Quell could end very, very quickly and too, too cleanly. But mostly about how, in an ordinary world, one where the Capitol hadn't been exposed as weak and vulnerable, I wouldn't be here. I'm really not supposed to be here. If the Gamemakers last year hadn't been asleep at the switch, I'd probably be dead and Katniss would be a stunning Victor all by herself.

Except then Haymitch would be here in my place, under a guaranteed death sentence.

"10... 9...8...7...6...5...4...3...2...1." The gong tolls. Even though I have come to learn how the water won't harm me, I don't move for a moment, waiting to see what the others will do.

The sound of the gong is unusually loud - enough that it startles Blight into losing his balance and falling into his watery wedge with a scream. Mags, meanwhile, leaps in, literally holding her nose. I knew she wouldn't listen to me! Then I see how she begins making short, smooth strokes towards the rocky spoke separating us. Oh. Right. She's from District 4. She's probably been swimming since she was in the cradle.

The next wedge over from them, Brutus manages a clumsy half-dive in, and then freestyle streaks for the horn. After a moment, James Logan tentatively lowers himself inch by inch into the waves, scaling down his pedestal, then follows.

The wedge beyond that, Lucy Gray was wise to wait for those men to pass her. She turns back to Woof and holds out her arms. I can't make out what is said over the sounds of initial splashes, but the message is clear: _JUMP_!

Woof trustingly makes a flying leap for his old friend's pedestal and actually covers the distance, landing in Lucy Gray's arms with enough force that they both tumble backwards into the watery wedge in an awkward embrace. My ancient mentor then begins towing Woof towards the island.

Mags is just clambering up onto the rocky spoke directly to my right when I realize: Wait. If a tribute can nimbly leap from one pedestal to another without getting wet, then that means -

Mags' horrified expression is the only warning I get before I feel a body slam into my back from behind, an arm go around my throat. Choking, struggling to throw Jackson Spidell off from where he's attacked me and held fast like a monkey, I trash wildly enough that we both go over into the waves.

The sensation of hitting the water is hard enough that it forces us to separate. Thrusting my feet down, I kick Jackson farther into the depths and shoot for the surface immediately. Blinking droplets out of my eyes, it takes me a few crucial seconds to get my bearings. Spying Mags, wide-eyed and beckoning to me, I make for her spoke... only for Jackson to break the surface nearly directly in my face. Trying hard not to panic, I reverse course and realize that one of my few chances is to create a height advantage. That means remounting my pedestal. But Jackson catches me, yanks me back down. So begins a furious fistfight in about fifteen feet of water. As I punch and duck Jackson's swings, I try to remember everything that Katniss ever taught me about treading water.

Amidst the sounds of our furious splashing, I soon hear a voice: "LUCY GRAY! Mags found him; he's over here!" _Finnick. Thank Panem_. Sending Jackson reeling back with one punch, I twist and try climbing my pedestal again. I have nealy one knee onto the platform when I feel my body jerked back as Jackson tugs. Gritting my teeth, I get my arms under the pedestal's ring as best as I can and hold fast.

Jackson is grunting, trying to loosen my grip. Behind us, I hear a SPLASH and then furious slapping. Finnick must be speed swimming to get to me. Suddenly, my entire grip loosens and with a growl, Jackson drags me beneath the waves.

Time seems to slow down as we sink. I hardly give it any thought. Spinning around in Jackson's hold, I literally bear-hug him, taking the District 10 Victor by surprise. Getting him pinned against me, I put him in a chokehold and snap his neck like a twig. Underwater, I thankfully don't have to hear the crucial bone break. There is faint, muffled retort from above, and I release Jackson's body to float to the surface, springing up after him to gasp for air.

Finnick blinks rather rapidly upon seeing me alive and well, from where he halted about two feet away. "Atta boy, Peeta! Come on!" Though I am competent enough to swim on my own, I nevertheless let him tow me back to shore. Clambering onto the rocky spoke, I grin up at my mentor.

"Howdy. Anything good at the horn?"

Mags babbles something, which I tune out. "Nothing but weapons." Lucy Gray reports.

"Speaking of which," Finnick hauls himself, dripping wet, onto the rocks. "Where's yours?"

"I don't have one," my district partner says.

"What do you mean you don't have one?"

"Young man," Lucy Gray snarls. "Back in my day, my weapon of choice is now actually illegal. I haven't been in combat for six and a half decades. If you can think of a good enough weapon for me to use, point me in the direction!"

A beat. Finnick is taken aback by Lucy Gray's precociousness, but he fumbles at his belt and tosses her a spiked club. "Here."

Tugging on his sleeve, Mags jabbers nonsensically until her partner hands her an awl. Pleased, she tucks it between her gums, then lifts her arms up over Finnick's neck. I decide to copy the arrangement with Lucy Gray, slinging her across my shoulders.

"Where's Woof?" I panic, glancing about.

"Uh-oh. Incoming!" Finnick calls.

Whipping back, I can see the Careers have solidified their alliance and are now striding down our spoke towards us... with Woof toddling off in their direction. "No, no, no, Woof, you come with us. Come on, Gramps..." I manage to cut him off, grab his hand, and the five of us run away from the Cornucopia.

Finnick quickly takes the lead with Mags riding piggyback. We manage to go a decent five miles before he requests a rest. Leaning against some trees, I wipe at my already damp brow and try to provide Lucy Gray with some shade by shielding her from the unrelenting sun with my own body.

About five minutes later, we hear the cannons. BOOM. BOOM...

I count carefully. "Eight."

Finnick huffs out a breath. "Any freshwater?"

I shrug. "Not that I can see." Side-eyeing Woof, I do a double-take when I realize what he's stuffed up his mouth. "Woof! No, no, no - spit that out right now! It could be poisonous!"

Finnick just laughs. "I guess we'll find out."

When nothing life-threatening occurs to Woof, we realize that the nuts littering the jungle earth are actually safe to eat. Finnick makes a small fire, and we roast them, which makes the little snack easier to consume.

Unfortunately, the nuts also make us more parched. "If we don't find something soon, we'll all drop from dehydration within the next day!" I grouse.

As if on cue, a tinkling of bells is heard, and a parachute lands right at Lucy Gray's feet. Unraveling it, she smiles at the accompanying note. "My granddaughter says this will help."

I dig the sponsor gift out of the parachute. "I love that woman..." I mumble. Except I can't make hide nor hair of whatever this little tube is in my hand. It's my district partner who figures it out.

"It's a spile! It can tap water from the trees. When I was small, we sometimes even used a thing like this to harvest maple syrup in the winter."

Images of pancakes instantly dance in my head. I've had maple syrup plenty of times in my life, but Katniss once told me that condiments like that are a rare delicacy in the Seam - seen only on special occassions like Toastings.

Positioning the spile up against one trunk, Finnick uses a rock to drive it into the bark. After a monent, water trickles out from the little pipe, and we all take turns greedily gulping our fill.

The sun finally sets on the first day, and the faces of the eight dead tributes appear in the sky.

For a Bloodbath, it was pretty clean, as all eight round out intact district pairs: Both from 5. Both of the Morphlings from 6. Both from 9 (I am bowled over that a proto-Career like Daniel Bernhardt went down). Not only did Jackson Spidell die at my hands, but his district partner, Tiffany Waxler, also perished in some unknown way. So both from 10. That's it for tonight.

This means that all the tributes from Districts 1 through 4 have all survived.

Finnick and Lucy Gray begin making a crude tent from some extremely large leaves, creating a canopy under which to sleep. "You elder folks turn in. I'll keep first watch," Finnick offers.

"I'll join you." As much as I don't think anything will happen, I can't let my guard down and fall asleep only to give Finnick a great opportunity to kill me.

We young men sit side-by-side against an imposing trunk, watching the trees beyond. It is some time before Finnick speaks:

"That was an amazingly brave thing you did, for the old drunk."

I shrug. "I don't think his withdrawal symptoms would have helped him in here, in the long run. And he's already been in a Quell - that's enough for one lifetime."

Finnick chuckles. I peer at him. "Mags was incredible, sacrificing herself for that young woman."

Something unreadable comes across Finnick's expression and he merely bobs his head. "Let's whisper from now on, OK? We don't want to wake the Traveling Old Folks' Home." And we glance back at the septuagenarian and octogenarians dozing under the leafy tent we made.

* * *

I don't remember falling asleep. Only that I wasn't supposed to, having sent Finnick off to rest a couple of hours before. A weird chiming sound - repeated twelve times in a row - wakes me up.

I frown. That sound was too high in tone to be a cannon. But what could it mean? Signifying the twelve districts, maybe? Immediately following, there is a plasmic roar, and within my line of vision, a tree is struck by lightning clear across the arena.

What I judge to be roughly two hours later, I am in danger of nodding off again, when I notice a strange fog floating on the light breeze towards me. Curious, I reach out a hand to the substance... and almost immedaitely wish I hadn't.

"GAHH!" I collapse all the way on my side, the muscles in my palm burning, blisters goosebumping onto my flesh. "RUN! Run! The fog is poison!"

Finnick snaps awake, picking up a still-asleep Mags and darting through the underbrush with the gracefulness of a gazelle. I manage to rouse Lucy Gray and cast her over my shoulders. "Come on, Grandmama, this way - Woof, get over here!" Seizing Woof's hand in my fist, I drag him along, dissuading him from being tempted to touch the dangerous mist himself.

We pelt through the jungle trees, but with Woof literally dragging his feet, it's slow going, and I quickly lose sight of the District 4 Victors. I have to follow the sound of their bodies crashing through the foliage. Meanwhile, the fog seems to be coming in from all sides at this point and quickly surrounds us almost completely. A terrific burning spasm shoots up my legs and I scream. "AHHHHHHHHH!"

The muscles in my calves seem to lock up and I nearly fall to my knees in the moss, taking Lucy Gray with me. Gritting my teeth, I struggle on through the pain, but impeded all the more when Woof lets out a frightened shriek and becomes dead weight that I practically have to drag along. The mist has got him too.

My vision is becoming unfocused, but when I next glance up, Finnick is back at my side.

"I can't do it, Finnick! I can't carry both Lu and Woof!"

It happens so fast, I nearly miss it. Woof suddenly takes Lucy Gray's face in his hands and pulls her into a deep kiss, which she holds. When he releases her, the District 8 Victor walks with his head held high into the mist.

"Woof... Woof..." The cannon fires. BOOM. "WOOF!" I scream.

"Peeta, it's coming, let's GO!" Shifting Lucy Gray along my shoulders, I take off after Finnick at the best jog I can muster. Still, the fog gains.

In the darkness of deep night, there is very little warning about what might be in our path. It is only by the light of the moon that I detect what's coming next.

"Finnick!" I shout. "The embankment!"

"I can't SEE anything!" Finnick screeches.

The fog is nearly right on top of us. "You're gonna have to JUMP!" With our mentors on our backs, we both take a blind leap of faith into open air, and the bottom drops out from under us. Crashing and bashing, we tumble down the steep embankment.

"Hang on!..." I shakily moan. Finally, with an OOF!, our little quartet slams into the jungle earth below and lies still. Lucy Gray's weight plows into my back and I hold in a growl.

When I don't feel the burns consume me, I look back to see an invisible wall has halted the fog's progress, just feet from where we've landed.

"P...Peeta! Pond! To the left!" Mags still over his shoulders, Finnick rotates down into the shallow water with a stop-drop-and-roll technique, which I quickly copy.

The water makes the burns sting all the more, but only temporarily, as the toxins appear to be purged from our skin.

Surfacing, we gather our bearings, check our weapons - most of which actually survived the mad dash in the dead of night.

And a good thing, too, for glancing up into the trees around us, a pack of howling monkeys has clambered down to observe us. When I do nothing more than innocently take out the spile, the entire horde attacks.

Despite being drained, we four Victors manage to fight back against these mutt attackers using trident, spear, awl and club. A bit of graying light peppers my face and I spy an opening through the leaves. "The beach! This way!" As I dive for the opening, a monkey cuts me off and leaps for me, fangs bared. Picturing Katniss naked and spread out like a feast before me, I cling to that image and brace for nothingness.

But my death doesn't come. A dark, fleeting shadow passes in front of me, before letting out a human wail. A body. It's another tribute. I stab the monkey that has felled her with the tip of my spear, and drag her along. Mags and Lucy Gray come stumbling after me, Finnick bringing up the rear with bounds and leaps.

Hitting the beach, I don't stop until I have dragged the body of my rescuer out into the surf. Finnick bursts out of the treeline and bares his teeth and trident at the monkeys, but the beasts come no further, electing to instead melt back into the fauna.

By the light of sunrise, I finally get a good look at my savior. When I do, my heart sinks: it is Seeder, the woman from 11. I hold her in the low tide as she dies, floating her body out to sea once she expires.

The morning comes fast, punctuated by a distinctly feminine scream when we've been in the arena roughly a full twenty-four hours. A giant tidal wave washes up on the beach as my allies and I spear fish for breakfast. The meal is interrupted when Finnick orders all of us back into the treeline. Tributes on approach - three bloodred figures stumbling in the sand towards our position. Luckily, Finnick recognizes one of them.

"Johanna!"

"Finnick!"

The two Victors hug in greeting, and once the old ladies and I emerge, the woman from 7 tells us her own harrowing tale. She explains that she rounded up her district partner, Blight, and the District 3 tributes, only to be assaulted by blood rain in the jungle.

"Blight hit the forcefield..." Johanna swallows hard. "He wasn't much, but he was from home."

Wiress, the woman from 3, is wandering about in a daze, mumbling a phrase: "Tick Tock."

"She's in shock," Beetee explains, though he looks just as worse off from dehydration himself. "This heat isn't helping. Do you have freshwater?"

Our two alliances merge without really any discussion. I am sure Haymitch is pleased. If my math is correct, four more tributes passed during the early morning hours, leaving twelve of us left... seven of whom are now right here on the beach.

Seeing that the Cornucopia is abandoned, we head there to regroup. While bathing Wiress, Lucy Gray managed to decode what the District 3 woman was babbling: the entire arena is rigged like a clock, with a new danger at the top of every hour. I try to organize her excited chattering by drawing a diagram in the sand.

Two choking sounds are all that save us.

I snap my head up to see Mags and Wiress being knifed by the twins from One. I always knew Gloss was a dipstick, but I didn't think he was stupid enough to provoke Finnick into flying into a bloodythirsty rage. The District 4 playboy windmills his trident like it's a deadly extension of his arm, skewering Gloss and Cashmere.

District 2 doesn't even slow down. It is left up to me and Johanna to guard Lucy Gray and Beetee and when Brutus and Enobaria are bullied back enough that they turn tail, we give chase.

We probably could have chased them down too, if the entire island doesn't start to up and spin.

Forced low to the ground by the centrifugal force, I dodge flying supplies and other projectiles, grabbing for Beetee's hand. After what only seems like a minute or two, we slam to a stop.

I nearly have a heart attack when I see Lucy Gray surface, choking on water. Finnick fishes her out like she weighs no more than a puppy.

Four more cannons sound belatedly, and our remaining quintet returns to the beach.

"We're at the Final Eight," I calculate. "Besides us and District 2, who's left?"

"Chaff," Finnick supplies.

"So, what, we hunt them down?" Johanna asks.

Before I can reply, I unexpectedly hear Katniss scream.

How...? "Katniss!"

I race blindly through the trees, following the sound of her cries for me. When I trace the chilling noise to a bird flying above my head, I chuck my spear like a javelin, shooting it down.

"Peeta!" Finnick slows out of his stride as he appears next to me. "Why'd you run off like that?; you need to be more careful -"

"Finnick!"

I used to think that nothing could faze Finnick Odair. Boy, was I wrong. Now it's his turn to pale as white as the dough I knead back home. "Annie? ANNIE! ANNIE!"

"Finnick, wait, don't! It's not real!" Now, I'm the one chasing him, and I have to kill off the jabberjay and nearly hold it up my ally's nose to stop him from running around in a blind panic.

More birds assault us and we try to sprint back to our friends. By the time we see them, an invisible wall has separated us. Finnick and I have no choice but to cover our ears until the auditory rape is up.

Our allies comfort us back on the beach - Lucy Gray massaging Finnick's shoulders, Johanna with an arm around me. "Who's Annie?" I ask her.

Johanna takes her time before answering. "Annie Cresta, the girl Mags volunteered for. She won about five years ago."

That would have been the summer after Katniss's father died.

It is getting on late afternoon when Beetee calls us to order. "I have a plan." And it involves the wire that he apparently nearly got stabbed over to get from the Bloodbath. If we go to the Lightning Tree that marks high noon, and run the wire from there down to the damp sand here, Beetee is convinced that we can electrocute anything in the wire's path... including District 2.

We take a vote, and agree to the plan. The sun sets and eight more faces appear in the sky:

Gloss. Cashmere. Wiress. Mags. Blight. Woof. His district partner, Cecelia. And Seeder.

* * *

It is full dark when the five of us hike to the Lightning Tree. Beetee is methodical and precise as he loops the wire around the massive trunk. Then he hands the coil to Johanna.

"Run this down to the beach. Then head for the corresponding tree in the two o'clock sector. We'll meet you there."

"I'll go with her as a guard," Lucy Gray volunteers.

Given that my mentor is 81 years old, I balk at this idea. Johanna solves that problem when she suggests carrying Lucy Gray on her back as they go along, the older woman keeping her eyes peeled for attackers. Finnick and I stay behind to guard the tree and Beetee.

It isn't even ten minutes before all hell breaks loose.

The wire suddenly goes slack. And then I hear my district partner scream in the distance.

"LUCY GRAY!"

"JOHANNA!"

Without thinking it through, Finnick and I both abandon Beetee in search of our friends. As I grope through the darkness in this deadly game of Blindman's Bluff, I realize that the end of this Quell may turn into a free-for-all in the night.

"LUCY GRAY!"

I don't find my mentor. But I do find someone else instead.

"Peeta!" I whirl around to see Chaff pinned in a chokehold by Brutus. "I'm sorry." The black man's neck is yanked to the side and I hear a CRACK.

"NO!"

Brutus just sneers. "I have a score to settle with Abernathy, boy. If I can't have him, you'll do." And he lunges for me.

Like before with Jackson, time seems to slow down. I fight like a man with everything to lose, and I soon find myself pinning Brutus and snapping his own neck without even fully realizing how I got there.

Two more cannons sound.

"LUCY GRAY!" I continue sprinting into the gloom, and eventually find my way back to the Lightning Tree. Beetee is sprawled on the ground before me, his form sparking and smoking. Tentatively, I search for a pulse without shocking myself. There is a pulse. He's alive, but only just.

A rustling in the leaves alerts me to Finnick returning to the clearing. I freeze, seizing the spear lying at Beetee's side... and which oddly has some of the wire deliberately looped around it. Finnick eyes the tip of the spear warily.

"Peeta..." he calls out. "Remember who the real enemy is!"

And then I get it.

The storm clouds rumble from above, and I watch as the lightning zig-zags down to earth.

"Peeta, get away from that tree!" I barely hear Finnick's warning over the roar of the plasma.

And my own scream, as I hurl the spear to the heavens with all my might. The lightning follows the wire and it all the way up, and the sky itself catches fire. I am flung backwards and everything goes dark.

* * *

I wake up on the floor of a hovercraft, a breathing mask over my nose and mouth. Turning my head, I can see a breathing Beetee hooked up to a similar apparatus. Extracting myself from the thing, I creep through the hull of the plane until I pass into a control room next door. Standing around a table and arguing are Haymitch, Katniss, Finnick, and the blonde man whom I remember as this year's Head Gamemaker.

"Just tell him when! -" Finnick's raised voice trails off as everyone notices me.

Katniss's smile is like the sun. "Peeta..." The relief in her voice is glorious as she runs into my arms, throws her own about my neck and kisses me full on the mouth.

"What's going on?" I ask when we break apart.

"Peeta," Plutarch Heavensbee, the Head Gamemaker announces. "You have been our mission from the beginning. The plan was always to get you out. Half the tributes were in on it. This is the revolution. And your girlfriend is the Mockingjay. But she only agreed to do it if we could get you out alive."

"What about Lucy Gray?" I ask.

Silence. No one looks at me. My heart freezes over. "Where's Lucy Gray?" I ask nervously.

"In the Capitol," Haymitch gets out, tone pained. "They got her, and Johanna. We're also hearing chatter that Annie Cresta and Enobaria Golding have been taken as well."

So, four female Victors - all between the ages of 21 and 81 - in the hands of brutal Peacekeepers. Horrible thoughts fill my mind of torture for what we've done. Or worse.

"We can't leave Lucy Gray behind!"

"The plan was always to keep you alive. She knew the risks!" Haymitch snaps. Though tears are threatening to spill.

Meanwhile, Plutarch plays us secretly recorded clips of him talking with President Snow. We learn that the Quell twist was deliberately changed to put down rebellion in the districts ("Every single Victor, up to and including Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, is now a clear and present danger to the Republic of Panem. Because of them, they all pose a threat. Because of them, they all think they're invincible.") as well as hear the President's reaction upon learning Katniss is Lucy Gray's granddaughter ("I knew it... I KNEW IT! _I KNEW IT!_ ").

"And where are we even going?" I demand.

Plutarch traps me in his gaze. "District 13. It exists."


	21. The End

**Chapter 21: The End**

District 13 is a remarkably efficient place.

Upon our landing, the underground government immediately assigns Katniss and I an apartment together. We are put to work filming propos and tinkering with technology for the war effort.

A few days later, my girlfriend and I are given quite the happy surprise when Katniss's mother and sister, as well as my father and brothers, all arrive safely in Thirteen with a whole crowd of survivors from Twelve led by Gale Hawthorne. Mom is missing. Leven fills me in: immediately after the Quell was halted, the Capitol started dropping firebombs on District 12. Mom had turned back to run into the bakery and retrieve some family heirlooms when the entire building went up. I hang my head in the closest thing I can manage to grief. Mom and I didn't have the best relationship, but she was family, and I loved her, in my own way.

About a week after the arrival of the remainder of District 12, we get some other relieving news: President Alma Coin sent an elite squad into the heart of the Capitol, which managed to break out _almost all of_ the captive Victors in a daring rescue mission. When I hear the words almost all, my heart constricts like a vice, fearing and bracing myself for the worst.

Cinna was also rescued; Katniss lets out a cry of joy when she throws her arms around him. Her stylist then presents her with a letter, apparently written by Lucy Gray. Cinna had managed to talk his way into becoming a guard for the prisoners, and had spoken to my eldest mentor almost every day.

"She passed this off to me the last time I saw her. That was about two days ago."

Sniffling, Katniss quietly opens the letter and reads it. I don't ask after it's contents; she will tell me, if she wants to. Her grey eyes fill with tears, and I put my arm around her, as we both silently mourn.

Scanning around the hangar, my gaze falls on a strikingly beautiful woman approaching Finnick Odair in a daze. It must be Annie Cresta, his secret love. Reaching out a trembling hand, she caresses his face, as if trying to determine for herself that he is real. Finnick lets out a choked sob. Annie tearfully smiles back. Sweeping into each other's arms, they both gasp and groan as they share a relieved, dizzying kiss.

* * *

Annie and Finnick's wedding is thrown together in a matter of days. Cinna and Katniss let the blushing bride have one of the bridal gowns the stylist had designed for Katniss's and my fake wedding. The nuptials are just what we need - there are some things, even in the midst of war, that just need to be celebrated.

The marriage of the Odairs seems to set a bunch of new romances popping up. One afternoon, a shaken Katniss comes back to our apartment to tell me that she walked in on Gale - her childhood friend - balls-deep in a mewling Johanna. The pairing more than a little amuses me.

"Who would fall in love with Johanna?" I remember my ally as being a little abrasive and uncouth.

"Who could _tame_ Johanna?" Katniss quips back, though she's trying to hide a smile. Taken aback though she might be, I can tell she is happy for her friend.

It is I who gets the biggest shock, however, when Primrose asks me for a favor. Taking a vial of morphling down to the med ward, I slow up at the door when I hear what sounds like moaning coming from inside:

"Hmmmm... But, our children - our children would _never_ forgive us if they... No... Oh no... Huhhh... Uhhhh..."

"Gods, yes, Belle..."

Wait a second... is that -?!

I burst in without so much as a knock, and Dad and Mrs. Everdeen snap apart from where they've been passionately kissing. And also where my father has been fiercely taking the mother of my girlfriend up against the wall.

I always knew that my parents' marriage was an arranged one at best, and Katniss is more than a little grossed out when I tell her about finding my dad and her mom together. Dad and Mrs. Everdeen, both a little embarassed, sit us down and explain that they were once childhood sweethearts, before Mrs. Everdeen married Katniss's father.

"We won't get married, for your sake's," Dad takes Belle's hand. "But we want to be together."

With that promise, Katniss and I tentatively give them our blessing.

* * *

The tide turns in the rebels' favor in earnest. Each of the districts falls one by one. Katniss leads the final assault on the Capitol. I help District 13 aerial forces invade from the rear of the city, though I nearly get captured in the process. Taking shelter in the shop of a former stylist, Tigress, I eventually learn that President Snow has been executed and the Hunger Games have been abolished. Once it is safe, I hitch a hovercraft ride back to District 12. Somehow, I know that she will be there waiting for me.

When I lay eyes on her, standing there with her pretty mouth agape in the garden behind her Victors' mansion, I fall in love all over again.

"Peeta..." she breathes out in a whisper. "You came home."

"Yeah," I smile. "It's me."

Katniss drifts quite close, gazing into my eyes and touching my face. "It _is_ you!" she beams.

Drawing her face to mine, Katniss and I happily embrace and kiss and kiss until we forget the world. Laughing, I pick her up and spin her around...

* * *

... and when I sent her down, it seems, we are standing before our hearth on the morning of our Toasting. My bride looks immaculate in her blue Reaping dress. Beaming into each other's eyes, Katniss takes my face in her hands and fiercely pushes her lips against mine in a dizzying wedding kiss.

Later that same day, Katniss dons her mother's old wedding dress, the Everdeen family heirloom, Standing before a clerk in the center of the Village (the Justice Building has not yet been rebuilt), Katniss and I exchange rings and vows.

"I now pronounce this couple man and wife." Smiling, my wife and I once again embrace and kiss. Then I sweep Katniss off her feet and bridal carry her into our house.

As soon as we are in the bedroom, I am undressing her, kissing her face, her lips, her neck, and she keens into me with a moan. I large and calloused palms cup her swelling breasts, tweaking the pebbling nipples under her bodice, and I rut into her curved and perfectly-toned ass. Groaning, Katniss furiously rocks back.

"Do you like it when I touch you, Mockingjay?" I croon.

"Y-yes... Oh, yes..." Katniss pants. "Take me, Peeta!"

Holding my gaze, her own eyes solemn, Katniss crawls back onto our bed and spreads her legs for me. I quickly clamber on top to straddle her, and when I thrust deep inside of her, it is like coming home.

"Hmmmm... Huhhh... Uhhhh... Mmmm... Peeta..." Katniss's moans are pretty and lowing as they are torn from her lips by my kisses.

"You love me," I say.

"And I love you," she sighs.

I fuck her until she can no longer walk. And when she cums all around me, I also tumble over the edge.

* * *

**16 Years Later**

Poppy plays in the Meadow. She has already grown up into a beautiful young lady, just like her mother. She is fast and playful, her voice trilling with laughter as I try and fail to keep up with her.

Seated on a picnic blanket, with the skirts of her dress fanned out around her, Katniss - my wife - looks just as beautiful as the day I met her. She now nurses our infant son, Basil, at her breast. He was quite the caboose, and though carrying him was easier than when she was pregnant with Poppy, it wasn't by much.

The arenas have been torn down, memorials erected in their place. There are no more Hunger Games. But they still teach about them in Upper School; occassionally, Katniss and Haymitch and I will go in and talk about them. Katniss was emotionally distraught when the day came to tell our little girl what her parents had done. What her adoptive grandfather had done. What her great-grandmama had done (Lucy Gray is buried here in the Village. My wife goes and leaves flowers at her grave every week).

I managed to resurrect the bakery, and now run it with my brothers and their spouses. Primrose survived the war, became a Healer, then came home and married Rory Hawthorne, who is now the new Miner Foreman. Mrs. Everdeen moved to District 4, and my father followed her there; though they have kept their word to never officially marry or Toast the bread, most of their neighbors seem to view them as husband and wife anyway. One of their neighbors is the Odairs – Finnick and Annie are now parents to a strapping teenage boy; in her frequent letters to us, Annie writes how she thinks my father and Mrs. Everdeen suit each other as a couple. But with no signing of papers or standing before a clerk at the Justice Building, I am confident that I am not in fact married to my stepsister.

As I take in my family, and the happiness that is mine, I am at peace knowing that this is the life I will have.

For I know well, there are much worse lives to lead. Just as there are much worse Games to play.


End file.
